UNIVERSITY  FARM 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

BY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 
POEMS 


WORKS  BY  PERCY  MACKAYE 

DRAMAS 

THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS.     A  COMEDY. 
JEANNE   D'ARC.     A  TRAGEDY. 
SAPPHO   AND   PHAON.     A  TRAGEDY. 
FENRIS   THE   WOLF.     A  TRAGEDY. 
A    GARLAND    TO     SYLVIA.       A     DRAMATIC 

REVERIE. 
THE     SCARECROW.       A    TRAGEDY    OF    THE 

LUDICROUS. 

YANKEE   FANTASIES.     FIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS. 
MATER.     AN  AMERICAN  STUDY  IN  COMEDY. 
ANTI-MATRIMONY.     A  SATIRICAL  COMEDY. 
TO-MORROW.     A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 
A  THOUSAND  YEARS  AGO.     A  ROMANCE  OF 

THE  ORIENT. 
THE  IMMIGRANTS.     A  LYRIC  DRAMA. 

MASQ UES 

SAINT  LOUIS.     A  Civic  MASQUE. 
SANCTUARY.     A  BIRD  MASQUE. 
THE   NEW   CITIZENSHIP.     A  Civic  RITUAL. 
CALIBAN.     A  SHAKESPEARE  MASQUE. 

POEMS 

THE   SISTINE   EVE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
URIEL,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
LINCOLN.     A  CENTENARY  ODE. 
THE   PRESENT  HOUR. 

ESSAYS 

THE   PLAYHOUSE   AND   THE   PLAY. 
THE   CIVIC  THEATRE. 
A   SUBSTITUTE   FOR   WAR. 

AT  ALL  BOOKSELLERS 


Photo  by  Arnold  Genthe,  N.Y. 


PERCY  MACKAYE 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 


BY 


PERCY  MACKAYE 


IN  TWO   VOLUMES 


VOLUME  I 
POEMS 


Nefo 

THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  1914, 
Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY  PERCY  MACKAYE. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 

BY  PERCY  MACKAYE. 

Collected  edition  published  April,  1916. 


Copyright  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  and  in  all  countries  of  the  copyright  union. 


All  rights  reserved,  including  rights  of  translation  into  foreign  languages,  including 
the  Scandinavian. 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

THE  PRESENT   HOUR 

NEW   POEMS   FOR   "THE   PRESENT   HOUR" 

LINCOLN   CENTENARY   ODE 

URIEL,  AND   OTHER   POEMS 

THE   SISTINE  EVE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


672  / 


PREFACE   TO   COLLECTED   POEMS 
AND   PLAYS 

IN  accepting  the  invitation  of  the  publishers  to 
collect  a  portion  of  my  published  work  within  the 
compass  of  two  volumes,  poems  and  plays,  the  oc 
casion  seems  fitting  for  me  to  comment  on  some  phases 
of  it  as  related  to  the  reading  public. 

While  the  writer  was  still  in  his  teens,  he  said  to 
himself:  "There  is  my  life-work;  it  rises  over  there 
beyond :  I  can  see  its  large  outlines.  I  will  give  my 
self  till  I  am  forty  to  do  its  'prentice  work :  then  per 
haps  I  may  be  ready  to  tackle  the  real  job  —  that 
vision  which  lies  there  alluring,  waiting  to  be  realized." 

Now,  then,  here  is  forty;  and  here  is  some  of  the 
'prentice  work  gathered  together;  yet  as  far  as  con 
cerns  myself,  apprenticeship  has  hardly  begun :  the 
real  life-work  still  beckons,  unrealized,  away  there 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 


beyond.  For  this  reason,  in  submitting  to  the  read 
er's  interest  the  works  here  collected,  I  should  like 
to  introduce  them  anew  rather  as  the  by-gleanings  of 
a  journey  but  just  set  forth  upon,  than  in  any  sense 
the  product  of  a  goal  attained.  As  such,  I  have 
gathered  together  the  contents  of  these  two  volumes. 

The  volume  Poems  contains  all  of  my  published 
poems  to  date.  It  is  a  complete  edition,  not  a  se 
lected  edition.  That  is,  it  does  not  represent  any 
selective  choice  on  my  part,  but  simply  a  reprinting  in 
one  volume  of  my  four  volumes,  "The  Present  Hour," 
"Uriel"  (by  courtesy  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.), 
"Lincoln  Centenary  Ode"  and  "The  Sistine  Eve," 
to  which  are  added  ten  new  poems  ("Dance  Mo 
tives"  to  "Christmas  1915")— in  part  an  after 
math  of  "The  Present  Hour"  —not  till  now  collected 
since  their  appearance  in  magazines.  Thus  the  volume 
begins  with  my  most  recent  work  in  verse,  and  pro 
ceeds,  in  backward  time  sequence,  to  my  earliest 
published  poems. 


PREFACE  ix 


Of  my  Plays,  since  not  more  than  five  could  bulk 
conveniently  in  one  volume,  I  have  selected  —  to 
represent  both  verse  and  prose  —  "  The  Canterbury 
Pilgrims,"  "Jeanne  d'Arc,"  "Sappho  and  Phaon," 
"The  Scarecrow,"  and  "Mater,"  in  the  order  of  their 
first  publication.  The  selection,  therefore,  does  not 
include  seven  other  of  my  published  play-volumes, 
nor  my  four  published  Masques. 

Here,  then,  are  two  volumes,  chiefly  of  verse,  sub 
mitted  to  the  reading  public.  Very  little  of  their 
contents,  however,  was  first  written  for  the  reading 
public.  Of  the  poems,  though  many  have  appeared 
in  magazines,  almost  none  has  been  written  for  them. 
Indeed  three-fourths  of  all  my  published  work,  poems 
and  plays,  has  been  designed  primarily  for  the  listening 
public  —  that  is,  for  the  ears  of  convened  audiences. 
In  so  far  as  it  involves  language,  the  art  involved  is 
one  wholly  of  the  Spoken  Word  —  (not  of  the  written), 
designed  in  each  case  to  meet  some  special  problem 
implied  in  conveying  its  idea  or  image,  on  tones  of  the 


PREFACE 


human  voice,  to  the  imaginations  of  gathered  listeners, 
less  or  more  in  numbers.  The  voice  may  be  that  of 
the  actor,  or  of  the  poet  speaking.  The  principle 
applies  as  much  to  poems  of  occasions  (designed  to 
express  their  distinctive  spirits  to  their  special  audi 
ences)  as  to  plays. 

Recently  a  most  wholesome  movement  has  devel 
oped  among  American  poets,  both  of  vers  libre  and  of 
rhymed  verse  forms,  emphasizing  the  immense  im 
portance  of  the  spoken  word  in  poetry,  as  distinct 
from  its  pale  shadow  on  the  printed  page.  This 
movement  will,  I  think  (increasingly  as  conditions  of 
our  theatre  improve),  tend  more  and  more  toward 
definite  dramatic  expression  on  the  part  of  our  poets, 
whether  to  audiences  through  actors  on  the  stage,  or 
to  audiences  gathered  to  hear  the  direct  utterances  of 
the  poets  themselves. 

From  its  beginning  my  own  work  has  concerned, 
almost  wholly,  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  technical 
expressions  of  the  spoken  word.  Thereby  the  spoken 


PREFACE  xi 


substance  of  these  words,  which  lie  here  in  these  vol 
umes  silent  (one  might  almost  say,  embalmed)  in  type, 
has  been  intimately  a  part  of  the  vital,  throbbing, 
varied  reactions  of  many  thousands  of  people,  to 
whom  the  writer  as  an  individual  meant  and  means 
almost  nothing. 

For  a  passing  instance,  the  opening  poem  "Fight," 
which  the  reader  here  peruses  as  a  narrative  in  print, 
was  written  to  be  spoken  aloud  within  sight  of  those 
very  waters,  at  Plattsburg,  where  the  last  naval  battle 
between  English-speaking  nations  occurred  just  a 
century  before.  I  read  it  from  a  platform  in  a  field  — 
among  speeches  from  representatives  of  Canada, 
England  and  the  United  States  —  to  the  thousands 
that  thronged  the  grandstands,  whom  it  was  neces 
sary  to  hold  as  attentive  to  the  folk-theme  of  a  poem 
as  to  the  political  theme  of  an  orator  —  in  both  cases, 
only  to  be  accomplished  by  spell  of  the  spoken  word. 
After  it  was  over,  among  the  crowding  groups  that 
gathered  round,  many  of  them  to  deplore  the  death 


xii  PREFACE 


of  my  poem's  hero,  an  old  farmer  called  out  to  me: 
"  Say,  Mister,  my  grandfather  fought  in  that  fight  — 
a  real  fighting  cock  too  he  was !  Do  you  guess  that 
fellow  Jock  knowed  him  ?  Tell  me  :  got  any  more  of 
Jock's  letters,  like  he  wrote  to  his  sweetheart  ?  Maybe 
they'd  tell  of  my  grandfather.  How  about  it?" 

Of  course  I  guessed  that  Jock  and  his  grandfather 
were  chums.  That  was  not  the  moment  (of  this 
printed  preface)  to  explain  that  Jock's  letter  to  his 
sweetheart  is  an  imagined  one,  composed  in  a  stan- 
zaic  form  of  my  own  invention. 

So,  if  space  afforded,  I  might  suggest  further  some 
of  the  living  human  relationships  of  verse-forms  in 
plays  to  actors  and  managers  at  rehearsals,  and  to 
"gods  of  the  gallery"  at  performances;  relationships 
of  which  the  printed  word  gives  no  hint.  In  the  Notes 
of  this  volume  are  listed  some  of  the  occasions  of  the 
spoken  poems  —  exclusive  of  the  acted  plays.  Pos 
sibly  these  bare  notes  may  suggest  to  the  reader  that 
modern  poetry, 'applied  to  specific  uses  in  its  universal 


PREFACE  xiii 


aims,  is  a  thing  in  demand  as  alive  and  many-sided  as 
ever  it  was  in  the  world's  history.  I  believe  it  is  even 
more  so. 

Three-fourths  also  of  all  my  work  —  like  that  of  a 
sculptor,  architect,  mural  or  portrait  painter  —  has 
been  imagined  and  executed  for  definite  commissions. 

Seldom,  after  his  art-school  days,  does  the  artist  in 
paint  or  marble  have  opportunity  or  inclination  to 
design  "  Salon-pieces,"  wholly  unrelated  to  any  defi 
nite  placement  or  function.  Quite  as  seldom  may  the 
dramatist,  or  the  poet  of  the  convened  audience,  de 
sign  his  work  without  thought  of  a  special  functioning. 

Such  definite  "  placement  "  of  statue,  painting,  play, 
or  poem  implies,  I  think,  no  lessening  —  but  rather  a 
heightening  —  of  the  creative  image  to  be  expressed. 
The  Sistine  Chapel  paintings  were  no  less  grandly 
conceived  because  they  were  executed,  on  special  com 
missions,  for  definite  wall-spaces.  The  technique  of 
the  Greek  dramatists  was  as  definitely  conditioned  by 
the  particular  demands  of  Athenian  festivals ;  that  cf 


xiv  PREFACE 


the  Irish  bards  by  the  special  needs  and  folk-customs 
of  their  listeners. 

A  commission  from  without,  of  course,  would  be 
futile  if  it  did  not  correspond  to  an  inward  creative 
desire,  which  is  itself  a  commission  from  what  used 
to  be  personified  as  "the  Muse."  Personally  I  have 
never  accepted  a  commission,  for  play  or  poem,  sub 
ject  to  any  conditions  that  might  retard  its  natural 
creative  impulse  or  its  execution.  Thus  accepted,  a 
commission  is  simply  the  practical  opportunity  for  a 
work,  already  conceived,  to  be  born  —  and  to  be  born 
with  the  hopeful  assurance  of  survival. 

Here,  chiefly,  then,  in  these  two  volumes  are  col 
lected  in  print  executed  commissions  of  work  involving 
the  spoken  word:  work  conceived  and  executed  not 
for  readers  as  such. 

That  this  aspect  of  work  by  many  authors  is  se 
curing  ever  wider  circles  of  readers  is  a  remarkable 
sign  of  the  times  in  our  country.  Especially  the 
reading  of  plays  has  enormously  increased  in  America 


PREFACE  xv 


since  The  Macmillan  Company  published,  in  1903, 
the  author's  first  play,  "The  Canterbury  Pilgrims. " 
Its  publication  was  the  first,  or  among  the  very  first, 
to  make  available  for  readers,  through  the  regular  book 
trade,  American  dramatic  work  of  the  contempora 
neous  theatre.  That  work,  a  commission  from  E.  H. 
Sothern,  has  been  followed  by  the  publication  of  fur 
ther  of  the  author's  commissions  from  Sothern  and 
Marlowe,  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  Henry  Miller, 
Margaret  Anglin,  etc.,  and  since  1903  such  publication 
of  plays  has  become  a  regular  part  of  the  business  of 
all  important  American  publishers.  These  activities 
have  received  increasing  support  from  dramatic 
Leagues  and  Societies,  and  especially  from  the  real 
revival  of  interest  in  contemporary  drama  at  the 
Universities.  There  the  change  of  attitude  has  been 
phenomenal. 

When  I  graduated  from  Harvard  in  1897,  there  were 
no  courses  there,  technical  or  otherwise,  in  the  modern 
drama.  The  official  acceptance  of  my  own  com- 


xvi  PREFACE 


mencement  part  "On  The  Need  of  Imagination  in 
The  Drama  of  To-day"  was  the  first  official  sanction 
of  the  subject,  which  was  commented  upon  by  the  Bos 
ton  Transcript  as  being  unprecedented  in  the  annals 
of  University  discussion,  especially  at  Harvard. 

Not  till  some  seven  or  eight  years  later  did  Professor 
George  P.  Baker  begin  his  excellent  work  there  in  his 
courses  on  dramatic  technique  —  itself  a  pioneering 
work  which  has  spread  to  many  other  universities. 

Contrary,  then,  to  many  public  statements  regard 
ing  my  early  dramatic  training,  it  was  not  at  Harvard 
that  I  received  any  technical  stimulus  or  education  in 
writing  plays.  (There,  and  at  Leipsic,  the  emphasis 
of  my  study  was  upon  languages  and  history.) 

One  of  my  earliest  memories  is  that  of  a  rehearsal 
of  my  father's  play  "Hazel  Kirke"  in  the  old  Madison 
Square  theatre,  New  York,  of  which  he  was  builder, 
chief  actor  and  director.  So  much  were  such  rehear 
sals,  and  the  life  on  and  behind  the  scenes,  a  portion  of 
my  childhood  (as  of  my  life  since)  that  I  well  recall 


PREFACE  xvii 


the  astonishment  I  felt  when  one  of  my  schoolmates 
confided  to  me  that  his  father  was  not  a  dramatist, 
and  never  read  aloud  his  plays  to  the  family  at  home, 
and  never  "made-up"  in  a  stage  dressing-room  to  act 
the  chief  parts  in  his  own  plays.  That  was  my  first 
dawning  realization  that  our  native  drama  is  not 
intimately  a  part  of  our  people's  life. 

So  it  was  chiefly  through  familiar  association  with 
Steele  MacKaye,  my  father,  through  the  instigations 
of  his  wonderfully  versatile  dramatic  genius,  as  dram 
atist,  actor,  stage  designer  and  director,  inventor  and 
teacher  of  his  art,  as  well  as  with  my  brother,  William 
Payson  MacKaye,  an  actor  and  poet  rich  in  promise, 
who  died  at  the  outset  of  his  career,  it  was  with  these 
and  their  co-workers  in  the  theatre  —  and  not  in  the 
university  —  that  I  first  became  aware  of  the  mag 
nificent  potency  of  the  theatre's  art  and  dedicated 
my  own  thought  and  work  to  the  hope  of  sharing  in  its 
service. 

There  remains,   in  this  preface,   only  to  comment 


xviii  PREFACE 


briefly  on  those  poems,  here  published  for  the  first 
time  in  book  form,  as  additions  to  "  The  Present  Hour." 
Those  of  the  "Present  Hour/'  occasioned  by  the 
course  of  the  Great  War,  were  written  during  the  first 
two  months  of  the  war  under  the  compulsion  of  an 
irresistible  reaction,  which  prevented  my  thinking  or 
expressing  anything  else  than  its  own  impulse  to  ex 
pression.  Then  came  the  numbing  sense  of  the  in- 
effectualness  of  all  expression  in  the  face  of  such  stu 
pendous  forces.  Hence  the  meagre  aftermath  of  these 
new  poems  written  during  the  year  that  has  followed. 
The  chief  value  of  the  war  poems  remains,  I  think, 
that  they  record  the  sincere  reactions  of  an  American 
poet  toward  events  of  the  most  ominous  "hour"  in 
the  world's  history,  and  that  those  reactions  are  in  large 
measure  representatively  American.  As  such  they 
may  make  their  slight  contribution  to  the  historical 
psychology  of  that  hour.  At  the  date  of  this  Preface, 
there  are  some  judgments  and  expressions  (though 
few)  in  the  war  poems  which  I  would  modify  or  clarify 


PREFACE  xix 


if  I  were  now  to  revise  them.  But  as  this  portentous 
time  brings  daily  its  revisions  to  judgment  and  feel 
ing,  how  could  I  revise  them  permanently?  I  could 
not,  so  I  have  let  them  stand,  unrevised,  as  at  least  a 
true  record  of  true  feeling.  The  few  new  poems 
record  that  increasing  sense  of  the  vast  complexity 
of  the  war  which  is  borne  in  upon  all  who  seek  its 
just  solution.  If  there  be  any  left  in  the  world  to-day 
to  whom  this  solution  seems  simple,  their  belief  will 
hardly,  I  think,  be  supported  by  the  disputing  his 
torians  of  to-morrow.  But  it  is  not  the  poet's  function 
to  weigh  the  minutice  of  evidence;  it  is  his  privilege 
momentarily  to  become  the  kindled  focus-point  of 
fiery  forces,  and  to  give  forth  their  light  and  flame 
according  to  the  tinder  of  his  spirit. 

PERCY  MACKAYE. 

NEW  YORK, 
February  14,  1916. 


THE   PRESENT   HOUR 


THE  VALIANT   DEFENDERS 

OF    CIVILIZATION 

THE   BELGIANS 


PREFACE 

POSTERITY  alone  can  correctly  estimate  and  appor 
tion  the  right  and  wrong  of  the  great  war  in  Europe. 

At  the  present  hour,  we  who  look  on  from  neutral 
America  can  but  judge  the  war's  issues  by  the  facts 
and  arguments  laid  before  us  by  the  press  and  spokes 
men  of  all  parties  in  the  conflict. 

By  such  evidence,  the  sympathies  of  our  citizens, 
by  overwhelming  majority,  are  with  the  cause  of  the 
Allies. 

In  thus  sympathizing  with  the  Allies,  we  do  so, 
I  believe,  whole-heartedly  in  the  faith  (based  on  the 
declared  policy  of  English  leaders)  that  they  are 
waging  against  militarism  a  fight  to  lessen  world 
armament  and  the  political  oppression  of  small  na 
tions.  If  they  win  and  the  stipulations  of  peace 
should  prove  otherwise,  our  revulsion  of  feeling 
would  surely  be  commensurate. 

ix 


PREFACE 


It  is  conceivable,  though  hardly  probable,  that 
future  evidence  may  alter  our  judgment  of  the  bel 
ligerents.  Our  reasons  remain  open  to  conviction. 
But  no  future  contingencies  can,  or  should,  stay  us 
now  from  taking  thought  and  expressing  it. 

In  view  of  the  world-misery  involved  by  the  war, 
our  reaction,  while  dispassionate,  cannot  possibly 
be  unimpassioned.  Not  to  feel  its  awful  issues 
passionately  would  be  uncivilized. 

Confronted  by  moral  and  social  issues  of  a  conflict 
the  most  poignant  in  history,  it  becomes  for  us  —  as 
neutrals,  who  alone  may  help  to  form  untainted  world- 
opinion —  a  pressing  duty  and  privilege  to  express 
ourselves. 


PERCY   MACKAYE. 


CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
October,  1914. 


CONTENTS 
I.    WAR 

PAGE 

FIGHT  :    THE  TALE  OF  A  GUNNER     ....  .  .        & 

THE  CONFLICT:    Six  SONNETS  .         .        ^       .  .  .       29 

1.  To  William  Watson  in  England     .         .  .  .      29 

2.  American  Neutrality      .        ,                 .  .  .30 

3.  Peace      .                        .        .        .        .  .  .      31 

4.  Wilson    .         .         .      -  .       Y       .        .  ...  .       32 

5.  Krappism        .        .        .         .      .-.        .  .  .       33 

6.  The  Real  Germany         .        .        .-      .  .  .       34 
THE  LADS  OF  LIEGE      •  •  .        ,        .        .        .  .  .35 
CARNAGE  :    Six  SONNETS    .         .        .        .        .  *  .       38 

1.  Doubt     .         .         .         .        .  *      .        .  .  .       38 

2.  The  Great  Negation        .        .        *        .  39 

3.  Louvain .        .         .....  .  .       40 

4.  Rheims  .         .         .         .         .        .        .  ;  «  .41 

5.  Kultur .        .  .  .42 

6.  Destiny  .        .        .        *        .        .        ,  .  .43 
THE  MUFFLED  DRUMS        .         .        ,        .        .  .  .       44 

ANTWERP    .....         »"'      .        .  .  .       46 

MAGNA  CARTA    .         .        .        .        .*        .        .  .  .      47 

MEN  OF  CANADA        ....*.".  .       50 

FRANCE       .        .        .        .        .        .,       ..-      »  «  .       52 

HAUPTMANN         .        .        ,        .        .        .         .  .  .53 

NIETZSCHE  .         .       _v        4  /',  *'  •'•',   ....  .54 

THE  CHILD-DANCERS 55 

xi 


xii  CONTENTS 


PAGR 

BATTLEFIELDS     .........       57 

IN  MEMORIAM     .........       58 

A  PRAYER  OF  THE  PEOPLES 60 

II.      PEACE 

PANAMA  HYMN .65 

GOETHALS  .         .        .         .         .        .         .         .    '     .        .       68 

A  CHILD  AT  THE  WICKET         ....>.       71 

HYMN  FOR  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE    .         .        .        .        .         .74 

LEXINGTON          .        .         .        .        ,        .         .        .        .       76 

SCHOOL        .         .         .         .  .     .       •-.-•       .         .         .  .      .       81 

THE  PLAYER      .         .        .         .        .        .        X'        .         .       89 

To  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY     .         .         .        .         .92 

PROLOGUE  AND  EPILOGUE  TO  A  BIRD  MASQUE         .         .       94 
THE  SONG  SPARROW.         .         ..      \       .        ....       99 

To  AN  UPLAND  PLOVER     .        .        ..       .        .        ,         .101 

RAIN  REVERY    .         .        . 103 

THE  HEART  IN  THE  JAR   . 106 

NEW  POEMS 

Three  Dance  Motives 117 

I.   Lethe 117 

II.   Dionysus       . 119 

III.   The  Chase 120 

The  Bandbox  Theatre 122 

To"E.  A." — Edwin  Arlington  Robinson          .         .  124 

Charles  Klein  :  Dramatist 125 

Edison 128 

The  Return  of  August        .        T        .        .         .         .132 

Federation 137 

Christmas,  1915 140 

NOTES  •     141 


THE   PRESENT  HOUR 

I 
WAR 


FIGHT 

THE  TALE  OF  A  GUNNER  1 

I 

JOCK  bit  his  mittens  off  and  blew  his  thumbs; 
He  scraped  the  fresh  sleet  from  the  frozen  sign  : 
MEN  WANTED  —  VOLUNTEERS.     Like  gusts  of  brine 

He  whiffed  deliriums 

Of  sound  —  the  droning  roar  of  rolling  rolling  drums 
And  shrilling  fifes,  like  needles  in  his  spine, 
And  drank,  blood-bright  from  sunrise  and  wild  shore, 

The  wine  of  war. 

:In  commemoration  of  the  last  naval  battle  between  English- 
speaking  peoples.     See  note  at  end  of  volume. 

3 


THE    PRESENT    HOUR 


With  ears  and  eyes  he  drank  and  dizzy  brain 
Till  all  the  snow  danced  red.     The  little  shacks 
That  lined  the  road  of  muffled  hackmatacks 

Were  roofed  with  the  red  stain, 
Which  spread  in  reeling  rings  on  icy-blue  Champlain 
And  splotched  the  sky  like  daubs  of  sealing-wax, 
That  darkened  when  he  winked,  and  when  he  stared 

Caught  fire  and  flared. 

MEN  WTANTED  —  VOLUNTEERS  !    The  village  street, 
Topped  by  the  slouching  store  and  slim  flagpole, 
Loomed  grand  as  Rome  to  his  expanding  soul ; 

Grandly  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  feet  in  file  and  flags  and  fifes  and  filing  feet, 
The  roar  of  brass  and  unremitting  roll 
Of  drums  and  drums  bewitched  his  boyish  mood  — 

Till  he  hallooed. 

His  strident  echo  stung  the  lake's  wild  dawn 

And  startled  him  from  dreams.     Jock  rammed  his  cap 


FIGHT 


And  rubbed  a  numb  ear  with  the  furry  flap, 

Then  bolted  like  a  faun, 
Bounding  through  shin-deep  sleigh-ruts  in  his  shaggy 

brawn, 

Blowing  white  frost-wreaths  from  red  mouth  agap 
Till,  in  a  gabled  porch  beyond  the  store, 

He  burst  the  door: 

"  Mother ! "  he  panted.  "  Hush  !  Your  Pa  ain't  up ; 
He's  worser  since  this  storm.  What's  struck  ye  so  ?  " 
"It's  volunteers!"  The  old  dame  stammered  "Oh!" 

And  stopped,  and  stirred  her  sup 
Of  morning  tea,  and  stared  down  in  the  trembling  cup. 
"They're  musterin'  on  the  common  now."     "I  know" 
She  nodded  feebly;   then  with  sharp  surmise 

She  raised  her  eyes : 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  poured  their  light  on  him 
Who  towered  glowing  there  —  bright  lips  apart, 


6  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Cap  off,  and  brown  hair  towsled.     With  quick  smart 

She  felt  the  room  turn  dim 

And  seemed  she  heard,  far  off,  a  sound  of  cherubim 
Soothing  the  sudden  pain  about  her  heart.  — 
How  many  a  lonely  hour  of  after-woe 

She  saw  him  so ! 


"Jock!"    And  once  more  the  white  lips  murmured 

"Jock!" 

Her  fingers  slipped ;   the  spilling  teacup  fell 
And  shattered,  tinkling  —  but  broke  not  the  spell. 

His  heart  began  to  knock, 

Jangling  the  hollow  rhythm  of  the  ticking  clock. 
"Mother,  it's  fight,  and  men  are  wanted!"     "Well, 
Ah  well,  it's  men  may  kill  us  women's  joys, 

It's  men  —  not  boys  ! " 

"I'm  seventeen!     I  guess  that  seventeen — " 
"  My  little  Jock ! "     "  Little !     I'm  six-foot-one. 


FIGHT 


(Scorn  twitched  his  lip)     You  saw  me,  how  I  skun 

The  town  last  Halloween 
At  wrastlin'."     (Now  the  mother  shifted  tack.)     "  But 

Jean? 

You  won't  be  leavin'  Jean?"     "I  guess  a  gun 
Won't   rattle    her."      He    laughed,    and    turned    his 

head. 
His  face  grew  red. 


"  But  if  it  doos  —  a  gal  don't  understand  : 

It's   fight!"     "Jock  boy,   your  Pa   can't  last   much 

more, 
And  who's  to  mind  the  stock  —  to  milk  and  chore  ?  " 

Jock  frowned  and  gnawed  his  hand. 
"Mother,  it's  men  must  mind  the  stock  —  our  own 

born  land, 

And  lick  the  invaders."     Slowly  in  the  door 
Stubbed  the  old  worn-out  man.     "Woman,  let  be! 

It's  liberty: 


8  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

"It's  struck  him  like  fork-lightnin'  in  a  pine. 

I  felt  it,  too,  like  that  in  Seventy-six; 

And  now,  if  'twa'n't  for  creepin'  pains  and  cricks 

And  this  one  leg  o'  mine, 
I'd  holler  young  Jerusalem  like  him,  and  jine 
The   fight;    but   fight   don't    come    from    burnt-out 

wicks ; 
It  comes  from  fire."     "Mebbe,"  she  said,  "it  comes 

From  fifes  and  drums." 


"Dad,  all  the  boys  are  down  from  the  back  hills. 
The  common's  cacklin'  like  hell's  cocks  and  hens; 
There's  swords  and  muskets  stacked  in  the  cow  pens 

And  knapsacks  in  the  mills; 
They   say   at    Isle   aux   Noix   redcoats    are    holding 

drills, 

And  we're  to  build  a  big  fleet  at  Vergennes. 
Dad,  can't  I  go ? "     "I  reckon  you  're  a  man : 

Of  course  you  can. 


FIGHT  9 


"I'll  do  the  chores  to  home,  you  do  'em  thar!" 
"Dad!"  — "Lad!"     The    men    gripped    hands    and 

gazed  upon 
The  mother,  when  the  door  flew  wide:    There  shone 

A  young  face  like  a  star, 

A  gleam  of  bitter-sweet  'gainst  snowy  islands  far, 
A  freshness,  like  the  scent  of  cinnamon, 
Tingeing  the  air  with  ardor  and  bright  sheen. 

Jock  faltered:    "Jean!" 

"Jock,  don't  you  hear  the  drums  ?     I  dreamed  all  night 
I  heard  'em,  and  they  woke  me  in  black  dark. 
Quick,    ain't    you    comin'?     Can't    you    hear    'em? 
Hark! 

The  men-folks  are  to  fight. 
I  wish  I  was  a  man!"     Jock  felt  his  throat  clutch 

tight. 

"  Men-folks  ! "     It  lit  his  spirit  like  a  spark 
Flashing  the  pent  gunpowder  of  his  pride. 

"Come  on!"    he  cried. 


10  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

"  Here  —  wait ! "     The  old  man  stumped  to  the  back 

wall 

And  handed  down  his  musket.     "You'll  want  this; 
And  mind  what  game  you're  after,  and  don't  miss. 

Goodbye :  I  guess  that's  all 
For  now.     Come  back  and  get  your  duds."    Jock, 

looming  tall 

Beside  his  glowing  sweetheart,  stooped  to  kiss 
The  little  shrunken  mother.     Tiptoe  she  rose 

And  clutched  him  —  close. 


In  both  her  twisted  hands  she  held  his  head 
Clutched  in  the  wild  remembrance  of  dim  years  — 
A  baby  head,  suckling,  half  dewed  with  tears; 

A  tired  boy  abed 

By  candlelight;   a  laughing  face  beside  the  red 
Log-fire ;   a  shock  of  curls  beneath  her  shears  — 
The  bright  hair  falling.     Ah,  she  tried  to  smother 

Her  wild  thoughts.  —  "  Mother 


FIGHT  11 


"Mother!"      he     stuttered.     "Baby     Jock!"      she 

moaned 

And  looked  far  in  his  eyes.  —  And  he  was  gone. 
The   porch   door   banged.     Out   in   the   blood-bright 

dawn 

All  that  she  once  had  owned  — 
Her  heart's  proud  empire  —  passed,  her  life's  dream 

sank  unthroned. 

With  hands  still  reached,  she  stood  there  staring,  wan. 
"Hark,  woman!"    said  the  bowed  old  man,  "What's 

tolling?" 
Drums  —  drums  were  rolling. 


II 


Shy  wings  flashed  in  the  orchard,  glitter,  glitter; 
Blue    wings    bloomed    soft    through    blossom-colored 

leaves, 
And  Phoebe!     Phoebe!  whistled  from  gray  eaves 


12  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Through  water-shine  and  twitter 
And  spurt  of  flamey  green.     All  bane  of  earth  and 

bitter 

Took  life  and  tasted  sweet  at  the  glad  reprieves 
Of  Spring,  save  only  in  an  old  dame's  heart 

That  grieved  apart. 


Crook-back  and  small,  she  poled  the  big  wellsweep : 

Creak  went   the   pole;     the   bucket   came   up   brim 
ming. 

On  the  bright  water  lay  a  cricket  swimming 
Whose  brown  legs  tried  to  leap 

But,  draggling,  twitched  and  foundered  in  the  circling 
deep. 

The  old  dame  gasped;    her  thin  hand  snatched  him, 
skimming. 

"  Dear  Lord,  he's  drowned  ! "  she  mumbled  with  dry 

lips: 
"The  ships!    the  ships!" 


FIGHT  13 


Gently  she  laid  him  in  the  sun  and  dried 

The  little  dripping  body.     Suddenly 

Rose-red  gleamed  through  the  budding  apple-tree 

And  "Look!    a  letter!"    cried 
A  laughing  voice,  "and  lots  of  news  for  us  inside!" 

"How's    that,    Jean?    News   from   Jock!     Where  — 

t 

where  is  he  ?  " 
"  Down     in     Vergennes  —  the     shipyards."     "  Ships ! 

Ah,  no! 
It  can't  be  so." 

"He's  goin'  to  fight  with  guns  and  be  a  tar. 

See  here :   he's  wrote  himself.     The  post  was  late. 

He  couldn't  write  before.     The  ship  is  great! 

She's  built,  from  keel  to  spar, 
And  called  the  Saratoga;   and  Jock's  got  a  scar 
Already — "     "Scar?"        the       mother       quavered. 

"Wait," 
Jean  rippled,  "let  me  read."     "Quick,  then,  my  dear, 

He'll  want  to  hear  — 


14  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

"Jock's  Pa:    I  guess  we'll  find  him  in  the  yard. 
He  ain't  scarce  creepin'  round  these  days,  poor  Dan !" 
She  gripped  Jean's  arm  and  stumbled  as  they  ran, 

And  stopped  once,  breathing  hard. 
Around  them  chimney-swallows  skimmed  the  sheep- 
cropped  sward 

And  yellow  hornets  hummed.  —  The  sick  old  man 
Stirred  at  their  steps,  and  muttered  from  deep  muse : 

"Well,  Ma:    what  news?" 


"From  Jockie  —  there's  a  letter!"     In  his  chair 
The  bowed  form  sat  bolt  upright.     "What's  he  say?" 
"He's  wrote  to  Jean.     I  guess  it's  boys  their  way 

To  think  old  folks  don't  care 
For  letters."     "Girl,  read  out."    Jean  smoothed  her 

wilding  hair 

And  sat  beside  them.     Out  of  the  blue  day 
A  golden  robin  called ;   across  the  road 

A  heifer  lowed; 


FIGHT  15 


And  old  ears  listened  while   youth   read:    "'Friend 

Jean, 

Vergennes  :  here's  where  we've  played  a  Yankee  trick. 
I'm  layin'  in  my  bunk  by  Otter  Crick 

And  scribblin'  you  this  mean 
Scrawl  for  to  tell  the  news  —  what-all  I've  heerd  and 

seen : 

Jennie,  we've  built  a  ship,  and  built  her  slick  — 
A  swan  !  —  a  seven  hundred  forty  tonner, 

And  I'm  first  gunner. 


" '  You  ought  to  seen  us  launch  her  t'other  day  ! 
Tell  Dad  we've  christened  her  for  a  fight  of  hisn 
He  fought  at  Saratoga.  Now  just  listen ! 

She's  twice  as  big,  folks  say, 
As  Perry's  ship  that  took  the  prize  at  Put-in  Bay; 
Yet  forty  days  ago,  hull,  masts  and  mizzen, 
The  whole  of  her  was  growin',  live  and  limber, 

In  God's  green  timber. 


16  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

" '  I  helped  to  fell  her  main-mast  back  in  March. 
The  woods  was  snowed  knee-deep.     She  was  a  won 
der: 
A  straight  white  pine.     She  fell  like  roarin'  thunder 

And  left  a  blue-sky  arch 

Above  her,  bustin'  all  to  kindlin's  a  tall  larch.  — 
Mebbe  the  scart  jack-rabbits  skun  from  under ! 
Us  boys  hoorayed,  and  me  and  every  noodle 

Yelled  Yankee-Doodle! 


"'My,  how  we  haw'd  and  gee'd  the  big  ox-sledges 
Haulin'  her  long  trunk  through  the  hemlock  dells, 
A-bellerin'  to  the  tinkle-tankle  bells, 

And  blunted  our  ax  edges 

Hackin'  new  roads  of  ice  'longside  the  rocky  ledges. 
We  stalled  her  twice,  but  gave  the  oxen  spells 
And  yanked  her  through  at  last  on  the  home-clearin'.  — 

Lord,  wa'n't  we  cheerin' ! 


FIGHT  17 


"'Since  then  I've  seen  her  born,  as  you  might  say: 
Born  out  of  fire  and  water  and  men's  sweatin', 
Blast-furnace  rairin'  and  red  anvils  frettin' 

And  sawmills,  night  and  day, 

Screech-owlin'  like  'twas  Satan's  rumhouse  run  away 
Smellin'  of  tar  and  pitch.     But  I'm  forgettin' 
The  man  that's  primed  her  guns  and  paid  her  score: 

The  Commodore. 

r' '  Macdonough  —  he's  her  master,  and  she  knows 
His  voice,  like  he  was  talkin'  to  his  hound. 
There  ain't  a  man  of  her  but  ruther'd  drownd 

Than  tread  upon  his  toes; 

And  yet  with  his  red  cheeks  and  twinklin'  eyes,  a  rose 
Ain't  friendlier  than  his  looks  be.  When  he's  round, 
He  makes  you  feel  like  you're  a  gentleman 

American. 

"'But  I  must  tell  you  how  we're  hidin'  here. 

This  Otter  Crick  is  like  a  crook-neck  jug 
c 


18  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

And  we're  inside.     The  redcoats  want  to  plug 

The  mouth,  and  cork  our  beer; 
So  last  week  Downie  sailed  his  British  lake-fleet  near 
To  fill  our  channel,  but  us  boys  had  dug 
Big  shore  intrenchments,  and  our  batteries 

Stung  'em  like  bees 

" '  Till  they  skedaddled  whimperin*  up  the  lake ; 
But  while  the  shots  was  flyin',  in  the  scrimmage, 
I  caught  a  ball  that  scotched  my  livin'  image.  — 

Now  Jean,  for  Sam  Hill's  sake, 

Don't  let-on  this  to  Mother,  for  you  know  she'd  make 
A  deary-me-in'  that  would  last  a  grim  age. 
'Tain't  much,  but  when  a  feller  goes  to  war 

What's  he  go  for 

" '  If  'tain't  to  fight,  and  take  his  chances  ? '  "  Jean 
Stopped  and  looked  down.     The  mother  did  not  speak. 
"Go  on,"  said  the  old  man.     Flush  tinged  her  cheek. 
"Truly  I  didn't  mean  — 


FIGHT  19 


There  ain't  much  more.     He  says :    '  Goodbye  now, 

little  queen; 

We're  due  to  sail  for  Plattsburgh  this  day  week. 
Meantime  I'm  hopin'  hard  and  takin'  stock. 
Your  obedient  —  Jock.' ' 

The  girl's  voice  ceased  in  silence.     Glitter,  glitter, 

The     shy    wings    flashed     through     blossom-colored 

leaves, 
And  Phoebe!    Phoebe!  whistled  from  gray  eaves 

Through  water-shine  and  twitter 
And  spurt  of  flamey  green.     But  bane  of  thought  is 

bitter. 

The    mother's    heart    spurned    May's    sweet    make- 
believes, 
For   there,    through   falling   masts   and   gaunt   ships 

looming, 
Guns  —  guns  were  booming. 


20  THE    PRESENT   HOUR 

III 

Plattsburgh  —  and  windless  beauty  on  the  bay ; 
Autumnal  morning  and  the  sun  at  seven : 
Southward  a  wedge  of  wild  ducks  in  the  heaven 

Dwindles,  and  far  away 
Dim  mountains  watch  the  lake,  where  lurking  for  their 

prey 

Lie,  with  their  muzzled  thunders  and  pent  levin, 
The  warships  —  Eagle,  Preble,  Saratoga, 

Ticonderoga. 

And  now  a  little  wind  from  the  northwest 

Flutters  the  trembling  blue  with  snowy  flecks. 
A  gunner,  on  Macdonough's  silent  decks, 

Peers  from  his  cannon's  rest, 

Staring  beyond  the  low  north  headland.     Crest  on  crest 
Behind  green  spruce-tops,  soft  as  wildfowls'  necks, 
Glide  the  bright  spars  and  masts  and  whitened  wales 

Of  bellying  sails. 


FIGHT  21 


Rounding,  the  British  lake-birds  loom  in  view 
Ruffling  their  wings  in  silvery  arrogance : 
Chubb,  Linnet,  Finch,  and  lordly  Confiance 

Leading  with  Downie's  crew 
The  line.  —  With  long  booms  swung  to  starboard  they 

heave  to, 

Whistling  their  flock  of  galleys  who  advance 
Behind,  then  toward  the  Yankees,  four  abreast, 

Tack  landward,  west. 


Landward  the  watching  townsfolk  strew  the  shore; 
Mist-banks  of  human  beings  blur  the  bluffs 
And    blacken    the   roofs,    like    swarms    of    roosting 
choughs. 

Waiting  the  cannon's  roar 

A  nation  holds  its  breath  for  knell  of  Nevermore 
Or  peal  of  life :   this  hour  shall  cast  the  sloughs 
Of  generations  —  and  one  old  dame's  joy : 

Her  gunner  boy. 


22  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

One  moment  on  the  quarter  deck  Jock  kneels 
Beside  his  Commodore  and  fighting  squad. 
Their  heads  are  bowed,  their  prayers  go  up  toward 
God- 

Toward  God,  to  whom  appeals 
Still   rise   in   pain   and   mangling   wrath   from    blind 

ordeals 

Of  man,  still  boastful  of  his  brother's  blood.  - 
They  stand  from  prayer.     Swift  comes  and  silently 

The  enemy. 

Macdonough  holds  his  men,  alert,  devout : 
"He  that  wavereth  is  like  a  wave  of  the  sea 
Driven  with  the  wind.     Behold  the  ships,  that  be 

So  great,  are  turned  about 
Even  with  a  little  helm."      Jock  tightens  the  blue 

clout 

Around  his  waist,  and  watches  casually 
Close-by  a  game-cock,  in  a  coop,  who  stirs 

And  spreads  his  spurs. 


FIGHT  23 


Now,  bristling  near,  the  British  war-birds  swoop 
Wings,  and  the  Yankee  Eagle  screams  in  fire; 
The  English  Linnet  answers,  aiming  higher, 

And  crash  along  Jock's  poop 

Her  hurtling  shot  of  iron  crackles  the  game-cock's  coop, 
Where  lo!   the  ribald  cock,  like  a  town  crier, 
!  Strutting  a  gunslide,  flaps  to  the  cheering  crew  — 
Yankee-doodle-doo  ! 


Boys  yell,  and  yapping  laughter  fills  the  roar : 
"  You  bet  we'll  do  'em  ! "     "  You're  a  prophet,  cocky ! " 
"Hooray,    old    rooster!"     "Hip,    hip,    hip!"     cries 
Jockie. 

Calmly  the  Commodore 

Touches  his  cannon's  fuse  and  fires  a  twenty-four. 
Smoke  belches  black.     "  Huzza !     That's  blowed  'em 

pocky!" 
And  Downie's  men,  like  pins  before  the  bowling, 

Fall  scatter-rolling. 


24  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Boom!  flash  the  long  guns,  echoed  by  the  galleys. 
The  Confiance,  wind-baffled  in  the  bay, 
With  both  her  port  bow-anchors  torn  away, 

Flutters,  but  proudly  rallies 

To  broadside,  while  her  gunboats  range  the  water-alleys. 
Then  Downie  grips  Macdonough  in  the  fray, 
And  double-shotted  from  his  roaring  flail 

Hurls  the  black  hail. 

The  hail  turns  red,  and  drips  in  the  hot  gloom. 
Jock  snuffs  the  reek  and  spits  it  from  his  mouth 
And  grapples  with  great  winds.     The  winds  blow  south, 

And  scent  of  lilac  bloom 

Steals  from  his  mother's  porch  in  his  still  sleeping  room. 
Lilacs !  —  But  now  it  stinks  of  blood  and  drouth  I 
He  staggers  up,  and  stares  at  blinding  light : 

"God!     This  is  fight!" 

Fight !  —  The  sharp  loathing  retches  in  his  loins ; 
He  gulps  the  black  air,  like  a  drowner  swimming, 


FIGHT  25 


Where  little  round  suns  in  a  dance  go  rimming 

The  dark  with  golden  coins : 
Round  him  and  round  the  splintering  masts  and  jangled 

quoins 

Reel,  rattling,  and  overhead  he  hears  the  hymning  — 
Lonely  and  loud  —  of  ululating  choirs 

Strangling  with  wires. 

Fight !  —  But  no  more  the  roll  of  chanting  drums, 
The  fifing  flare,  the  flags,  the  magic  spume 
Filling  his  spirit  with  a  wild  perfume; 

Now  noisome  anguish  numbs 

His  sense,  that  mocks  and  leers  at  monstrous  vacuums. 
Whang  !   splits  the  spanker  near  him,  and  the  boom 
Crushes  Macdonough,  in  a  jumbled  wreck, 

Stunned  on  the  deck. 

No  time  to  glance  where  wounded  leaders  lie, 
Or  think  on  fallen  sparrows  in  the  storm  — 
Only  to  fight !     The  prone  commander's  form 
Stirs,  rises  stumblingly 


26  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

And  gropes  where,  under  shrieking  grape  and  musketry, 
Men's  bodies  wamble  like  a  mangled  swarm 
Of  bees.     He  bends  to  sight  his  gun  again, 
Bleeding,  and  then  — 


Oh,  out  of  void  and  old  oblivion 

And  reptile  slime  first  rose  Apollo's  head : 

And  God  in  likeness  of  Himself,  'tis  said, 

Created  such  an  one, 

Now  shaping  Shakspere's  forehead,  now  Napoleon, 
Various,  by  infinite  invention  bred, 
In  His  own  image  moulding  beautiful 

The  human  skull. 

Jock  lifts  his  head ;   Macdonough  sights  his  gun 
To  fire  —  but  in  his  face  a  ball  of  flesh, 
A  whizzing  clod,  has  hurled  him  in  a  mesh 

Of  tangled  rope  and  tun, 
While  still  about  the  deck  the  lubber  clod  is  spun 


FIGHT  27 


And,  bouncing  from  the  rail,  lies  in  a  plesh 
Of  oozing  blood,  upstaring  eyeless,  red  — 

A   gunner's   head. 

******* 

Above  the  ships,  enormous  from  the  lake, 
Rises  a  wraith  —  a  phantom  dim  and  gory, 
Lifting  her  wondrous  limbs  of  smoke  and  glory ; 

And   little   children   quake 

And  lordly  nations  bow  their  foreheads  for  her  sake, 
And  bards  proclaim  her  in  their  fiery  story; 
And  in  her  phantom  breast,  heartless,  unheeding, 

Hearts  —  hearts  are  bleeding. 

IV 

Macdonough  lies  with  Downie  in  one  land. 
Victor  and  vanquished  long  ago  were  peers. 
Held  in  the  grip  of  peace  an  hundred  years 

England  has  laid  her  hand 

In  ours,  and  we  have  held  (and  still  shall  hold)  the  band 
That  makes  us  brothers  of  the  hemispheres; 


28  THE  PRESENT  HOUR 

Yea,  still  shall  keep  the  lasting  brotherhood 
Of  law  and  blood. 

Yet  one  whose  terror  racked  us  long  of  yore 
Still  wreaks  upon  the  world  her  lawless  might: 
Out  of  the  deeps  again  the  phantom  Fight 

Looms  on  her  wings  of  war, 

Sowing  in  armed  camps  and  fields  her  venomed  spore, 
Embattling  monarch's  whim  against  man's  right, 
Trampling  with  iron  hoofs  the  blooms  of  time 

Back  in  the  slime. 

We,  who  from  dreams  of  justice,  dearly  wrought, 
First  rose  in  the  eyes  of  patient  Washington, 
And  through  the  molten  heart  of  Lincoln  won 

To  liberty  forgot, 

Now,  standing  lone  in  peace  'mid  titans  strange  dis 
traught, 

Pray  much  for  patience,  more  —  God's  will  be  done  I  — 
For  vision  and  for  power  nobly  to  see 

The  world  made  free. 


THE   CONFLICT:    Six  SONNETS 
[August,  1914] 

I 

TO  WILLIAM  WATSON  IN  ENGLAND 
SINGER  of  England's  ire  across  the  sea, 
Your  austere  voice,  electric  from  the  deep, 
Speaks  our  own  yearning,  and  our  spirits  sweep 
To  Europe's  allied  honor.  —  Painfully, 
Bowed  with  a  planet's  lonely  burden,  we 
Held  our  hot  hearts  in  leash,  but  now  they  leap 
Their  ban,  like  young  hounds  belling  from  their  keep, 
To  bait  the  Teuton  wolf  of  tyranny. 

What!    Would  he  throw  us  sops  of  sugared  art 
And  poisoned  commerce,  snarling:    "So!   lie  still 
Till  I  have  shown  my  fangs,  and  torn  the  heart 
Of  half  the  world,  and  gorged  my  sanguine  fill ! "  — 
Now,  England,  let  him  see:   Rage  as  he  will, 

He  cannot  tear  our  plighted  souls  apart. 

29 


30  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

II 
AMERICAN  NEUTRALITY 

How  shall  we  keep  an  armed  neutrality 
With  our  own  souls  ?     Our  souls  belie  our  lips, 
That  seek  to  hold  our  passion  in  eclipse 
And  hide  the  wound  of  our  sharp  sympathy, 
Saying  :    "  One's  neighbor  differs ;   he  might  be 
Kindled  to  wrath,  were  one  to  wield  the  whips 
Of  truth."  —  Great  God  !     A  red  Apocalypse 
Flames  on  the  blinded  world :   and  what  do  we  ? 

Peace  !   do  we  cry  ?     Peace  is  the  godlike  plan 

We  love  and  dedicate  our  children  to ; 

Yet  England's  cause  is  ours :   The  rights  of  man, 

Which  little  Belgium  battles  for  anew, 

Shall  we  recant  ?     No !  —  Being  American, 

Our  souls  cannot  keep  neutral  and  keep  true. 


THE    CONFLICT  31 

III 
PEACE 

PEACE  !  —  But  there  is  no  peace.     To  hug  the  thought 

Is  but  to  clasp  a  lover  who  thinks  lies. 

Go :   look  your  earnest  neighbor  in  the  eyes 

And  read  the  answer  there.     Peace  is  not  bought 

By  distance  from  the  fight.     Peace  must  be  fought 

And  bled  for :   'tis  a  dream  whose  horrid  price 

Is  haggled  for  by  dread  realities ; 

Peace  is  not  paid  till  dreamers  are  distraught. 

Would  we  not  close  our  ears  against  these  ills, 
Urging  our  hearts  :    "  Be  calm  !     America 
Is  called  upon  to  rebuild  a  world."  —  But  ah ! 
How  shall  we  nobly  build  with  neutral  wills? 
Can  we  be  calm  while  Belgian  anguish  shrills? 
Or  would  we  crown  with  peace  —  Caligula  ? 


32  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

IV 
WILSON 

PATIENCE  —  but  peace  of  heart  we  cannot  choose ; 
Nor  would  he  wish  us  cravenly  to  keep 
Aloof  in  soul,  who  —  large  in  statesmanship 
And  justice  —  sent  our  ships  to  Vera  Cruz. 
Patience  must  wring  our  hearts,  while  we  refuse 
To  launch  our  country  on  that  crimson  deep 
Which  breaks  the  dikes  of  Europe,  but  we  sleep 
Watchful,  still  waiting  by  the  awful  fuse. 

Wisdom  he  counsels,  and  he  counsels  well 
Whose  patient  fortitude  against  the  fret 
And  sneer  of  time  has  stood  inviolable. 
We  love  his  goodness  and  will  not  forget. 
With  him  we  pause  beside  the  mouth  of  hell :  — 
The  wolf  of  Europe  has  not  triumphed  yet. 


THE    CONFLICT  33 

V 
KRUPPISM 

CROWNED  on  the  twilight  battlefield,  there  bends 
A  crooked  iron  dwarf,  and  delves  for  gold, 
Chuckling  :  "One  hundred  thousand  gatlings  —  sold  !" 
And  the  moon  rises,  and  a  moaning  rends 
The  mangled  living,  and  the  dead  distends, 
And  a  child  cowers  on  the  chartless  wold, 
Where,  searching  in  his  safety- vault  of  mold, 
The  kobold  kaiser  cuts  his  dividends. 

We,  who  still  wage  his  battles,  are  his  thralls 
And  dying  do  him  homage ;   yea,  and  give 
Daily  our  living  souls  to  be  enticed 
Into  his  power.     So  long  as  on  war's  walls 
We  build  engines  of  death  that  he  may  live, 
So  long  shall  we  serve  Krupp  instead  of  Christ. 


34  THE    PRESENT   HOUR 

VI 
THE  REAL  GERMANY 

BISMARCK  —  or  rapt  Beethoven  with  his  dreams  : 

Ah,  which  was  blind  ?     Or  which  bespoke  his  race  ?  - 

That  breed  which  nurtured  Heine's  haunting  grace, 

And  Goethe,  mastering  Olympic  themes 

Of  meditation,  Mozart's  golden  gleams, 

And  Leibnitz  charting  realms  of  time  and  space, 

Great-hearted  Schiller,  and  that  fairy  brace 

Of  brothers  who  first  trailed  the  goblin  streams. 

Bismarck  for  these  builded  an  iron  tomb, 

And  clanged  the  door,  and  turned  a  kaiser's  key; 

And  simple  folk,  that  once  danced  merrily 

Their  May-ring  rites,  march  now  in  roaring  gloom 

Toward  that  renascent  dawn  when  the  black  womb 

Of  buried  guns  gives  birth  to  Germany. 


THE  LADS  OF  LIEGE 

["  Horum  omnium  fortissimi  sunt  Beiges."  —  CAESAR'S 
"  Commentaries  "] 

THE  lads  of  Liege,  beyond  our  eyes 
They  lie  where  beauty's  laurels  be  — 
With  lads  of  old  Thermopylae, 

Who  stayed  the  storming  Persians. 

The  lads  of  Liege,  on  glory's  field 
They  clasp  the  hands  of  Roland's  men, 
Who  lonely  faced  the  Saracen 
Meeting  the  dark  invasion. 

The  lads  —  the  deathless  lads  of  Liege, 
They  blazon  through  our  living  world 
Their  land  —  the  little  land  that  buried 

Olympian  defiance. 
35 


36  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

"Now  make  us  room,  now  let  us  pass; 
Our  monarch  suffers  no  delay. 
To  stand  in  mighty  Caesar's  way 
Beseems  not  Lilliputians." 

"  We  make  no  room ;   you  shall  not  pass, 
For  freedom  says  your  monarch  nay ! 
And  we  have  stood  in  Caesar's  way 
Through  freedom's  generations. 

"And  here  we  stand  till  freedom  fall 
And  Caesar  cry,  ere  we  succumb, 
Once  more  his  horum  omnium 
Fortissimi  sunt  Belgoe." 

The  monarch  roars  an  iron  laugh 
And  cries  on  God  to  man  his  guns; 
But  Belgian  mothers  bore  them  sons 
Who  man  the  souls  within  them : 


THE    LADS    OF    LIEGE  37 

They  bar  his  path,  they  hold  their  pass, 
They  blaze  in  glory  of  the  Gaul 
Till  Csesar  cries  again  "Of  all 
The  bravest  are  the  Belgians!" 

O  lads  of  Liege,  brave  lads  of  Liege, 
Your  souls  through  glad  Elysium 
Go  chanting :    horum  omnium 
Fortissimi  sunt  Belgce! 


CARNAGE:  Six  SONNETS 
[September,  1914] 

I 

DOUBT 

So  thin,  so  frail  the  opalescent  ice 
Where  yesterday,  in  lordly  pageant,  rose 
The  monumental  nations  —  the  repose 
Of  continents  at  peace!    Realities 
Solid  as  earth  they  seemed;    yet  in  a  trice 
Their  bastions  crumbled  in  the  surging  floes 
Of  unconceivable,  inhuman  woes, 
Gulfed  in  a  mad,  unmeaning  sacrifice. 

We,  who  survive  that  world-quake,  cower  and  start, 
Searching  our  hidden  souls  with  dark  surmise : 
So  thin,  so  frail  —  is  reason  ?     Patient  art  — 
Is  it  all  a  mockery,  and  love  all  lies? 
Who  sees  the  lurking  Hun  in  childhood's  eyes? 

Is  hell  so  near  to  every  human  heart? 
38 


CARNAGE  39 


II 
THE  GREAT  NEGATION 

WHEN  that  great-minded  man,  Sir  Edward  Grey, 

Said  to  the  hypocritic  '  prince  of  peace ' : 

"Let  us  confer,  who  hold  the  destinies 

Of  Europe,  ere  the  tempest  breaks,  and  stay 

Its  carnage ! "   the  proud  despot  answered  nay, 

And  by  that  great  negation  loosed  the  seas 

And  winds  of  multitudinous  miseries 

To  rage  around  his  empire  for  their  prey. 

He  might  have  uttered  "Peace":    Peace  would  have 

been. 

He  might  have  abdicated  ere  he  fought 
For  such  Satanic  empire;    but  to  win 
Power  he  refused.     Therefore  a  rankling  thought 
Festers  henceforth  with  that  refusal's  sin :  — 
He  might  have  saved  the  world,  and  he  would  not. 


40  THE   PRESENT   HOUR 

III 
LOUVAIN 

SERENE  in  beauty's  olden  lineage, 

Calm  as  the  star  that  hears  the  Angelus  toll, 

Louvain  —  the  scholar's  crypt,  the  artist's  goal, 

The  cloistral  shrine  of  hallowed  pilgrimage 

Rapt  in  the  dreams  of  many  an  ardent  age, 

Louvain,  the  guileless  city  of  man's  soul, 

Is  blotted  from  the  world  —  a  bloodied  scroll, 

Ravaged  to  sate  a  drunken  Teuton's  rage. 

His  lust  shall  have  its  laurel.     That  red  sword 
He  ravished  with,  Time's  angel  shall  again 
Grasp  to  sere  him,  and  deify  him  Lord 
Of  Infamy;    yea,  brand  him  with  its  stain 
Naked  in  night,  abhorrent  and  abhorr'd, 
Where  the  dead  hail  him  William  of  Louvain  ! 


CARNAGE  41 


IV 
RHEIMS 

APOLLO  mourns  another  Parthenon 

In  ruins !  —  Is  the  God  of  Love  awake  ? 

And  we  —  must  we  behold  the  world's  heart  break 

For  peace  and  beauty  ravished,  and  look  on 

Dispassionate  ?  —  Rheims'  gloried  fane  is  gone : 

Not  by  a  planet's  rupture,  nor  the  quake 

Of  subterranean  titans,  but  to  slake 

The  vengeance  of  a  Goth  Napoleon. 

O  Time,  let  not  the  anguish  numb  or  pall 

Of  that  remembrance!     Let  no  callous  heal 

Our  world-wound,  till  our  kindled  pities  call 

The  parliament  of  nations,  and  repeal 

The  vows  of  war.     Till  then,  pain  kee'p  us  thrall ! 

More  bitter  than  to  battle  —  is  to  feel. 


42  THE   PRESENT   HOUR 

V 
KULTUR 

IF  men  must  murder,  pillage,  sack,  despoil, 
Let  it  not  be  (lest  angels  laugh)  in  the  name 
Of  sacred  Culture.     Vulcan  still  goes  lame 
Though  servile  Muses  poultice  him  with  oil 
Of  sleek  Hypocrisy.     They  waste  their  toil 
Whose  boast  of  light  and  sweetness  takes  its  claim 
From  deeds  of  night  and  wormwood,  which  defame 
Fair  Culture's  shrine  and  make  her  gods  recoil. 

No;    let  the  imperial  Visigoth  put  off 

His  borrowed  toga,  boast  aloud  his  slain 

In  naked  savagery,  and  make  his  scoff 

Of  Attic  graces.      So  when  once  again 

He  asks  for  Culture's  crown,  'twill  be  enough 

To  answer  him  :   Once  Rheims  was  —  and  Louvain  ! 


CARNAGE  43 


VI 
DESTINY 

WE  are  what  we  imagine,  and  our  deeds 
Are  born  of  dreaming.     Europe  acts  to-day 
Epics  that  little  children  in  their  play 
Conjured,  and  statesmen  murmured  in  their  creeds ; 
In  barrack,  court  and  school  were  sown  those  seeds, 
Like  Dragon's  teeth,  which  ripen  to  affray 
Their  sowers.     Dreams  of  slaughter  rise  to  slay, 
And  fate  itself  is  stuff  that  fancy  breeds. 

Mock,  then,  no  more  at  dreaming,  lest  our  own 

Create  for  us  a  like  reality  ! 

Let  not  imagination's  soil  be  sown 

With  armed  men  but  justice,  so  that  we 

May  for  a  world  of  tyranny  atone 

And  dream  from  that  despair  —  democracy. 


THE  MUFFLED   DRUMS 

FOR  brothers  laid  in  blood, 

For  lovers  sundered, 
Defeated  motherhood 

And  manhood  plundered  — 
We  moan,  moan  the  faith  of  man  forgotten. 

For  human  vision  bleared 

And  childhood  bleeding, 
For  ripening  harvests  sered 

Before  the  seeding  — 
We  mourn,  mourn  the  beauty  unbegotten. 

We  were  the  wanton  ones 

In  old  wines  sunken, 
Who  sent  the  nations'  sons 

Forth,  reeling  drunken 

With  blare  and  rhythm  of  war's  ruthless  glory. 
44 


THE    MUFFLED    DRUMS  45 

Now  in  our  pulse  no  more 

The  old  wines  quicken, 
For  the  bannered  glory  of  war 

Trails  draggled  and  stricken, 

And  the  blood-red  beast  crawls  home,   blinded  and 
hoary : 

But  we  are  the  beating  hearts 

Of  women,  whose  yearning 
Shall  harass  the  beast  with  darts 

Of  their  myriad  burning 
Till  the  Angel  of  God  remould  him  —  an  image  human. 

Yea,  we  are  the  chanting  wills 

Of  women,  whose  sorrow 
Rebels  at  the  age-borne  ills 

Of  a  man-built  morrow, 
And  we  chant,  chant  the  world  redeemed  by  Woman. 


ANTWERP  i 

TOWERS  —  eternal  towers  against  the  sky : 
Dawn-touched,  noon-flamed,  night-mantled  and  moon- 
flecked  ! 

The  tenuous  dreams  of  man,  the  architect, 
Imagining  in  stone  what  may  not  die 
Though  man,  the  anarchist,  dream  enginery 
For  its  destruction  :   towers  of  intellect, 
Towers  of  aspiration  —  torn  and  wrecked, 
Profaned  by  robber  sacrilege  :   ah,  why  ? 

Reason  shall  ask,  and  answer  shall  be  given; 

Justice  shall  ask,  and  deal  to  those  insane 

Their  dark  asylums,  but  to  those  —  the  vain 

Of  lustful  power,  how  shall  their  souls  be  shriven  ?  — 

They  shall  be  raised  on  infamy's  renown 

And  from  their  towers  of  tyranny  hurled  down. 


See  note  at  end  of  volume. 
46 


MAGNA  CARTA 

MAGNA  CARTA  !  Magna  Carta ! 
English  brothers,  we  have  borne  it 
On  our  banners  down  the  ages.  — 
Who  shall  scorn  it  ? 
Bitter  fought-for,  blood-emblazoned 
With  the  fadeless  gules  of  freedom, 
Interbound  with  precious  pages  — 
English  brothers,  we  who  shrine  it 
In  our  common  heart  of  hearts, 
Think  you  we  can  see  a  monarch, 
Tyrant-sceptred,  sanguine-shod, 
Seek  to  rend  it  and  malign  it : 
We  whose  sires  made  him  sign  it  — 
Him  who  deemed  him  next  to  God ! 
We  who  dreamed  our  world  forever 
Purged  and  rid 

Of  his  spectre  —  think  you,  brothers, 

47 


48  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

We  can  watch  this  ghost,  resurgent, 
Sweep  his  servile  hordes  toward  England, 
And  stand  silent?  —  God  forbid ! 

Magna  Carta !    Magna  Carta !     . 
Brother  freemen,  we  who  bear  it 
Starward  —  shall  we  see  him  tear  it  ? 
Fool  or  frantic, 

Let  him  dare  it ! 

.   0 
If  he  reach  across  the  Channel 

He  shall  touch  across  the  Atlantic :  — 
Scrolled  with  new  and  olden  annal, 
Bitter  fought-for,  blood-emblazoned 
With  the  fadeless  gules  of  freedom, 
We  will  hand  him  —  Magna  Carta  ! 
Yea,  once  more  shall  make  him  sign  it 
Where  the  centuries  refine  it, 
Till  his  serfs,  who  now  malign  it, 
Are  made  sick  of  him,  and  free 
Even  as  we. 


MAGNA    CARTA  49 

So,  if  ghostly  through  the  sea-mist, 
You  behold  his  Mediaeval 
Falcon  face  peer  violating  — 
Lo,  with  quills  and  Magna  Carta 
(Sharpened  quills  and  Magna  Carta) 
In  a  little  mead  near  London, 
English  brothers,  we  are  waiting ! 


MEN  OF  CANADA 

MEN  of  Canada, 

Fellow  Americans, 
Proud  our  hearts  beat  for  you  over  the  border: 

Proud  of  the  fight  you  wage, 

Proud  of  your  valiant  youth 
Sailing  to  battle  for  freedom  and  order. 

On  our  own  battlefields 
Many's  the  bout  we  had  — 

Yankee,  Canadian,  redcoat  and  ranger; 
But  our  old  brotherhood, 
Staunch  through  the  centuries, 

Shouts  in  our  blood  now  to  share  in  your  danger. 

Ah,  it's  a  weary  thing 
Waiting  and  watching  here, 
Numbing  ourselves  to  a  frozen  neutrality: 
Yet,  in  a  world  at  war, 
Tis  our  good  part  to  keep 

Patient  to  forge  the  strong  peace  of  finality. 

50 


MEN    OF    CANADA  51 

Though,  then,  our  part  be  Peace, 

Yet  our  free  fighting  souls 
League  with  your  own  'gainst  the  world-lust  of  Vandals ; 

Yea,  in  the  dreadful  night, 

We,  with  your  women,  weep 
And  for  your  shroudless  dead  burn  our  shrine  candles. 

So,  by  the  gunless  law 

Of  our  sane  borderline, 
By  our  souls'  faith,  that  no  border  can  sever, 

Freedom  !  —  now  may  your  fight, 

Waging  the  death  of  war, 
Silence  the  demons  of  cannon  forever  ! 

Kin-folk  of  Canada, 

So  may  your  allied  arms 
Smite  with  his  legions  the  Lord  of  Disorder ! 

God  speed  your  noble  cause  ! 

God  save  your  gallant  sons  ! 
Would  we  might  sail  with  them  —  over  the  border  I 


FRANCE 

HALF  artist  and  half  anchorite, 

Part  siren  and  part  Socrates, 
Her  face  —  alluring  fair,  yet  recondite  — 

Smiled  through  her  salons  and  academies. 

Lightly  she  wore  her  double  mask, 
Till  sudden,  at  war's  kindling  spark, 

Her  inmost  self,  in  shining  mail  and  casque, 
Blazed  to  the  world  her  single  soul  —  Jeanne  d'Arc  ! 


52 


HAUPTMANN 

JEAN  CHRISTOPHE  called  to  him  out  of  the  night  — 
Out  of  the  storm  and  dark  of  Europe's  hate, 
Crying  :  "  Where  art  thou,  Hauptmann,  who  so  late 
Loomed  as  a  rugged  tower  of  human  right  ? 
Flame  to  the  world  thy  lonely  beacon-light 
Of  love  for  alien  hearths  laid  desolate  ! "  — 
In  answer  rolled  a  voice  infuriate 
Hoarse  with  the  fog  of  racial  scorn  and  spite : 

"  Here  am  I !  — Let  them  perish  ! "     And  hell  laughed 
To  hear  that  voice  —  which  once  was  wont  to  soar 
With  Hannele  to  heaven,  and  starward  waft 
The  souls  of  simple  weavers  —  rasp  with  war ; 
Yea,  laughed  to  watch  that  tower's  heroic  shaft 
Fall  crumbling  on  the  beaconless  world  shore. 


53 


NIETZSCHE 

SOME  worshipped  and  some  bantered,  when 
The  prophets  of  the  drawing  room 
Gossiped  of  Jesus  Christ  his  doom 

Under  the  reign  of  Supermen, 

And  how  the  Christian  world  would  quake 

To  hear  what  Zarathustra  spake. 

Lo,  Zarathustra's  voice  has  spoken : 
And  they,  who  use  a  mad  bard's  song 
To  vindicate  a  tyrant's  wrong, 

Point  to  the  staring  dead  for  token 

Of  their  triumphant  creed,  enshrined 

In  temples  of  the  Teuton  mind. 

The  raving  dog-star  hath  his  season : 
But  when  the  light  beyond  our  death 
Leads  back  again  from  Nazareth 

The  holy  star  of  human  reason  — 

Then  will  philosophy  no  more 

Be  servile  to  the  Muse  of  War. 
54 


THE  CHILD-DANCERS1 

A  bomb  has  fallen  over  Notre  Dame  : 
Germans  have  burned  another  Belgian  town: 
Russians  quelled  in  the  east:    England  in  qualm: 

I  closed  my  eyes,  and  laid  the  paper  down. 

Gray  ledge  and  moor-grass  and  pale  bloom  of  light 

By  pale  blue  seas ! 

What  laughter  of  a  child  world-sprite, 

Sweet  as  the  horns  of  lone  October  bees, 

Shrills  the  faint  shore  with  mellow,  old  delight? 

What  elves  are  these 

In  smocks  gray-blue  as  sea  and  ledge, 

Dancing  upon  the  silvered  edge 

Of  darkness  —  each  ecstatic  one 

Making  a  happy  orison, 

With  shining  limbs,  to  the  low-sunken  sun  ?  — 

1  At  end  of  volume  see  note. 
55 


56  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

See:  now  they  cease 

Like  nesting  birds  from  flight: 

Demure  and  debonair 

They  troop  beside  their  hostess'  chair 

To  make  their  bedtime  courtesies : 

"  Spokoinoi  notchi  !  —  Gute  Nacht ! 

Bon  soir !     Bon  soir !  —  Good  night!" 
What  far-gleaned  lives  are  these 
Linked  in  one  holy  family  of  art  ?  — 
Dreams :    dreams  once  Christ  and  Plato  dreamed 
How  fair  their  happy  shades  depart ! 

Dear  God !    how  simple  it  all  seemed, 
Till  once  again 

Before  my  eyes  the  red  type  quivered :    Slain  : 
Ten  thousand  of  the  enemy.  — 
Then  laughter!    laughter  from  the  ancient  sea 
Sang  in  the  gloaming:    Athens!     Galilee! 
And  elfin  voices  called  from  the  extinguished  light 
"  Spokoinoi  notchi  I  —  Gute  Nacht  ! 
Bon  soir!    Bon  soir!  —  Good  night!" 


BATTLEFIELDS 

ON  the  battlefields  of  birth, 
Lulled  from  pain  in  twilight  sleep, 

Languorous  in  calm  reliance 

On  the  Christ-like  soul  of  science, 
They  whose  patient  soldiership 
Bore  the  age-old  pangs  of  earth 
Till  the  patient  seers  of  reason  set  them  free  — 

Volunteers,  whose  valiant  warring 

Is  the  passion  of  restoring  — 
Mothers,  gentle  mothers,  bless  you,  Germany  I 

By  the  battlefields  of  death, 
Racked  by  prayers  that  never  sleep, 

Anguished  with  a  wild  defiance 

Of  the  Satan  powers  of  science, 
They  whose  loving  guardianship 
Knit  the  subtle  bonds  of  breath 
Till  their  sons  of  iron  tore  them  ruthlessly  — 

Victims,  whose  heart-blinding  portion 

Is  their  victory's  abortion  — 

Mothers,  maddened  mothers,  curse  you,  Germany  ! 
57 


IN  MEMORIAM 
MRS.  WOODROW  WILSON 

HER  gentle  spirit  passed  with  Peace  — 
With  Peace  out  of  a  world  at  war 

Racked  by  the  old  earth-agonies 
Of  kaiser,  king  and  czar, 

Where  Bear  and  Lion  crouch  in  lair 
To  rend  the  iron  Eagle's  flesh 

And  viewless  engines  of  the  air 
Spin  wide  their  lightning  mesh, 

And  darkly  kaiser,  czar  and  king 

With  awful  thunders  stalk  their  prey.  — 

Yet  Peace,  that  moves  with  silent  wing, 
Is  mightier  than  they. 

And  she  —  our  lady  who  has  passed  — 

And  Peace  were  sisters :    They  are  gone 
Together  through  time's  holocaust 

To  blaze  a  bloodless  dawn. 
58 


INMEMORIAM  59 

How  otherwise  the  royal  die 

Whose  power  is  throned  on  rolling  drums ! 
Her  monument  of  royalty 

Is  builded  in  the  slums : 

Her  latest  prayer,  transformed  to  law, 
Shall  more  than  monarch's  vow  endure, 

Assuaging  there,  with  loving  awe, 
The  anguish  of  the  poor. 


A  PRAYER  OF  THE  PEOPLES 

GOD  of  us  who  kill  our  kind  ! 
Master  of  this  blood-tracked  Mind 
Which  from  wolf  and  Caliban 
Staggers  toward  the  star  of  Man  - 
Now,  on  Thy  cathedral  stair, 
God,  we  cry  to  Thee  in  prayer ! 

Where  our  stifled  anguish  bleeds 
Strangling  through  Thine  organ  reeds, 
Where  our  voiceless  songs  suspire 
From  the  corpses  in  Thy  choir  — 
Through  Thy  charred  and  shattered  nave, 
God,  we  cry  on  Thee  to  save! 

Save  us  from  our  tribal  gods! 

From  the  racial  powers,  whose  rods  — 
60 


A    PRAYER    OF    THE    PEOPLES      61 

Wreathed  with  stinging  serpents  —  stir 
Odin  and  old  Jupiter 
From  their  ancient  hells  of  hate 
To  invade  Thy  dawning  state. 

Save  us  from  their  curse  of  kings ! 
Free  our  souls'  imaginings 
From  the  feudal  dreams  of  war; 
Yea,  God,  let  us  nevermore 
Make,  with  slaves'  idolatry, 
Kaiser,  king  or  czar  of  Thee  ! 

We  who,  craven  in  our  prayer, 
Would  lay  off  on  Thee  our  care  — 
Lay  instead  on  us  Thy  load; 
On  our  minds  Thy  spirit's  goad, 
On  our  laggard  wills  Thy  whips 
And  Thy  passion  on  our  lips ! 

Fill  us  with  the  reasoned  faith 
That  the  prophet  lies,  who  saith 


62  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

All  this  web  of  destiny, 
Torn  and  tangled,  cannot  be 
Newly  wove  and  redesigned 
By  the  Godward  human  mind. 

Teach  us,  so,  no  more  to  call 

Guidance  supernatural 

To  our  help,  but  —  heart  and  will  — 

Know  ourselves  responsible 

For  our  world  of  wasted  good 

And  our  blinded  brotherhood. 

Lord,  our  God !    to  whom,  from  clay, 

Blood  and  mire,  Thy  peoples  pray  — 

Not  from  Thy  cathedral's  stair 

Thou  nearest :  —  Thou  criest  through  our  prayer 

For  our  prayer  is  but  the  gate: 

We,  who  pray,  ourselves  are  fate. 


THE   PRESENT  HOUR 

II 
PEACE 


PANAMA  HYMN 

LORD  of  the  sundering  land  and  deep, 
For  whom  of  old,  to  suage  thy  wrath, 

The  floods  stood  upright  as  a  heap 
To  shape  thy  host  a  dry-shod  path, 

Lo,  now,  from  tide  to  sundered  tide 
Thy  hand,  outstretched  in  glad  release, 

Hath  torn  the  eternal  hills  aside 
To  blaze  a  liquid  path  for  Peace. 

Thy  hand,  englaived  in  flaming  steel, 
Hath  clutched  the  demons  of  the  soil 

And  made  their  forge-fires  roar  and  reel 
To  serve  thy  seraphim  in  toil; 

While  round  their  pits  the  nations,  bowed, 

Have  watched  thine  awful  enginery 
Compel,  through  thunderbolt  and  cloud, 

The  demigods  to  slave  for  thee. 
F  65 


66  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

For  thee  hath  glaring  Cyclops  sweat, 
And  Atlas  groaned,  and  Hercules 

For  thee  his  iron  sinews  set, 

And  thou  wast  lord  of  Rameses; 

Till  now  they  pause,  to  watch  thy  hand 
Lead  forth  the  first  leviathan 

Through  mazes  of  the  jungled  land, 
Submissive  to  the  will  of  man : 

Submissive  through  the  will  of  us 

To  thine,  the  universal  will, 
That  leads,  divine  and  devious, 

To  world-communions  vaster  still.  — 

The  titans  rest;    intense,  aware, 
The  host  of  nations  dumbly  waits; 

The  mountains  lift  their  brows  and  stare; 
The  tides  are  knocking  at  the  gates. 


PANAMA   HYMN  67 

Almighty  of  the  human  mind, 

Unlock  the  portals  of  our  sleep 
That  lead  to  visions  of  our  kind, 

And  marry  sundered  deep  to  deep ! 


GOETHALS 

A  MAN  went  down  to  Panama 

Where  many  a  man  had  died 
To  slit  the  sliding  mountains 

And  lift  the  eternal  tide: 
A  man  stood  up  in  Panama, 

And  the  mountains  stood  aside. 

The  Power  that  wrought  the  tide  and  peak 

Wrought  mightier  the  seer; 
And  the  One  who  made  the  isthmus 

He  made  the  engineer, 
And  the  good  God  he  made  Goethals 

To  cleave  the  hemisphere. 

The  reek  of  fevered  ages  rose 
From  poisoned  jungle  and  strand, 

Where  the  crumbling  wrecks  of  failure 
Lay  sunk  in  the  torrid  sand  - 

Derelicts  of  old  desperate  hopes 

And  venal  contraband : 
68 


GOETHALS  69 


Till  a  mind  glowed  white  through  the  yellow  mist 

And  purged  the  poison-mold, 
And  the  wrecks  rose  up  in  labor, 

And  the  fevers'  knell  was  tolled, 
And  the  keen  mind  cut  the  world-divide, 

Untarnished  by  world  gold : 

For  a  poet  wrought  in  Panama 

With  a  continent  for  his  theme, 
And  he  wrote  with  flood  and  fire 

To  forge  a  planet's  dream, 
And  the  derricks  rang  his  dithyrambs 

And  his  stanzas  roared  in  steam. 

But  the  poet's  mind  it  is  not  his 

Alone,  but  a  million  men's : 
Far  visions  of  lonely  dreamers 

Meet  there  as  in  a  lens, 
And  lightnings,  pent  by  stormy  time, 

Leap  through,  with  flame  intense: 


70  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

So  from  our  age  three  giants  loom 
To  vouch  man's  venturous  soul : 

Amundsen  on  his  ice-peak, 
And  Peary  from  his  pole, 

And  midway,  where  the  oceans  meet, 
Goethals  —  beside  his  goal : 

Where  old  Balboa  bent  his  gaze 

He  leads  the  liners  through, 
And  the  Horn  that  tossed  Magellan 

Bellows  a  far  halloo, 
For  where  the  navies  never  sailed 

Steamed  Goethals  and  his  crew; 

So  nevermore  the  tropic  routes 

Need  poleward  warp  and  veer, 
But  on  through  the  Gates  of  Goethals 

The  steady  keels  shall  steer, 
Where  the  tribes  of  man  are  led  toward  peace 

By  the  prophet-engineer. 


A  CHILD   AT  THE  WICKET 

A  LITTLE  isle:    it  is  for  some 
Hell's  gate,  for  some  Elysium !  — 
Round  Ellis  Isle  the  salt  waves  flow 
With  old-world  tears,  wept  long  ago; 

Round  Ellis  Isle  the  warm  waves  leap 
With  new-world  laughter  from  the  deep, 
And  centuries  of  sadness  smile 
To  clasp  their  arms  round  Ellis  Isle. 


I  watched  her  pass  the  crowded  piers, 
A  peasant  child  of  maiden  years; 
Her  face  was  toward  the  evening  sky 
Where  fair  Manhattan  towered  high; 

Her  yellow  kerchief  caught  the  breeze, 
Her  crimson  kirtle  flapped  her  knees, 
As  lithe  she  swayed  to  tug  the  band 

Of  swaddled  bundle  in  her  hand. 
71 


72  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

From  her  right  hand  the  big  load  swung, 
But  with  her  left  strangely  she  clung 
To  something  light,  which  seemed  a  part 
Of  her,  and  held  it  'gainst  her  heart: 

A  something  frail,  which  tender  hands 
Had  touched  to  song  in  far-off  lands 
On  twilights,  when  the  looms  are  mute : 
A  thing  of  love  —  a  slender  lute. 

Hardly  she  seemed  to  know  she  held 
That  frail  thing  fast,  but  went  compelled 
By  wonder  of  the  dream  that  lay 
In  those  bright  towers  across  the  bay. 

A  staggering  load,  a  treasure  light  — 
She  bore  them  both,  and  passed  from  sight. 
From  Ellis  Isle  I  watched  her  pass : 
Pinned  on  her  breast  was  Lawrence,  Mass. 


A    CHILD    AT   THE    WICKET         73 

O  little  isle,  you  are  for  some 
Hell's  gate,  for  some  Elysium ! 
Your  wicket  swings,  and  some  to  song 
Pass  on,  and  some  to  silent  wrong; 

But  who,  where  hearts  of  toilers  bleed 
In  songless  toil,  ah,  who  will  heed  — 
On  twilights,  when  the  looms  are  mute  — 
A  thing  of  love,  a  slender  lute? 


HYMN  FOR  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 

THEY  have  strewn  the  burning  hearths  of  Man  with 

darkness  and  with  mire, 
They  have  heaped  the  burning  hearts  of  Man  with 

ashes  of  desire, 
Yet  from  out  those  hearts  and  hearths  still  leaps  the 

quick  eternal  fire 

Whose  flame  is  liberty. 

But  the  flame  which  once  led  deathward  all  the  dazzled 

fighting  hordes 
Lights  them  now  to  living  freedom  from  the  bondage 

of  their  lords, 
And  our  mothers  are  uprisen  'mid  their  sons  to  wrest 

the  swords 

From  hands  of  tyranny. 

For  the  freedom  of  the  laborer  is  freedom  from  his  toil, 
And  freedom  of  the  citizen  is  right  to  share  the  soil, 
And  the  freedom  of  our  country  is  our  loosing  of  the  coil 

That  chokes  posterity. 
74 


HYMN  FOR  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE  75 

So  we  who  wage  our  devious  wars,  in  fastness  and  in  fen, 
Let  us  claim  our  common  birthright  in  the  living  sun 

again, 
Till  the  battle  of  the  beasts  becomes  the  reasoning  of 

men, 

And  joy  our  destiny. 

Let  us  march  then,  all  together,  not  because  our  leaders 

call, 

But  at  summons  of  the  mighty  soul  of  man  within  us  all, 
Men  and  women,  equal  comrades,  let  us  storm  the 

nation's  wall 

And  cry  "Equality!" 

For  the  vote  that  brings  to  woman  and  to  man  life's 

common  bread, 
Is  mightier  than  the  mindless  gun  that  leaves  a  million 

dead; 
And  the  rights  of  Man  shall  triumph  where  once  men 

and  women  bled 

When  mothers  of  men  are  free. 


LEXINGTON 

"WHERE  is  the  little  town  of  Lexington? 

Oh,  I  have  lost  my  way ! "  — 
But  all  the  brawling  people  hurried  on : 

Why  should  they  stay 
To  watch  a  tattered  boy,  with  wistful  face, 
Dazed  by  the  roaring  strangeness  of  the  place  ?  — 

In  wondering  scorn 
Turning,  he  tapped  the  powder  from  his  powder-horn. 

"  Where  is  my  blood-bright  hearth  of  Lexington  ?  "  — 

Strangely  the  kindling  cry 
Startled  the  crowded  street;    yet  everyone 

Still  scrambled  by 

Into  the  shops  and  markets ;   till  at  last 
Went  by  a  pensive  scholar.     As  he  passed, 

Sudden,  to  whet 

Of  steel,  he  heard  a  flint-lock  flash  :  their  faces  met. 
76 


LEXINGTON  77 

"What  like,  then,  is  your  little  Lexington?'* 

"Oh,  sir,  it  is  my  home, 
Which  I  have  lost."  — The  scholar's  sharp  eyes  shone. 

"Come  with  me!     Come, 
And  I  will  show  you,  old  and  hallowed,  all 
Its  maps  and  marks  and  shafts  memorial."  — 

Out  of  the  roar 

They  went,  into  green  silence  where  old  elm  trees  soar. 

I 

"  Here  is  your  little  town  of  Lexington : 

Let  fall  your  eyes 
And  read  the  old  inscription  on  this  stone : 

'Beneath  this  lies 

The  first  who  fell  in  our  dear  country's  fight 
For  revolution  and  the  freeman's  right/" 

The  boy's  eyes  fell, 
But  shining  swiftly  rose :    "  Yes,  I  remember  well ! 

"  Yet  there  lies  not  my  lost  home  Lexington : 
For  none  who  fall 


78  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

At  Lexington  is  buried  under  stone; 

And  eyes  of  all 

Who  fight  at  Lexington  look  up  at  God 
Not  down  upon  His  servants  under  sod 

Whose  souls  are  sped; 
They  lie  who  say  in  Lexington  free  men  are  dead." 

"My  son,  I  said  not  so  of  Lexington. 

'There  lie  the  bones/ 
I  said,  'of  great  men,  and  their  souls  are  gone.' 

God  sends  but  once 

His  lightning-flash  to  strike  the  sacred  spot. 
Our  great  sires  are  departed."  —  "They  are  not! 

I  am  alive. 
/  fought  at  Lexington ;   you  see,  I  still  survive ! 

"And  still  I  live  to  fight  at  Lexington. 

I  am  come  far 
From  Russian  steppes  and  Balkan  valleys,  wan 

With  ghostly  war, 


LEXINGTON  79 

Where  still  the  holy  watchword  in  the  fight 
Was  Revolution  and  the  freeman's  right !  — 

Now  I  am  come 
Back  with  that  battle-cry  to  help  my  own  dear  home. 


"  Here,  here  it  lies  —  my  lost  home  Lexington  ! 

Not  there  in  dust, 
But  here  in  the  great  highway  of  the  sun, 

Where  still  the  lust 

Of  arrogant  power  flaunts  its  regiments, 
And  lurking  hosts  of  tyranny  pitch  their  tents, 

And  still  the  yoke 
Of  heavy-laden  labor  weighs  on  simple  folk. 


"Our  country  cries  for  living  Lexington! 

From  mine  and  slum 
And  hearths  where  man's  rebellion  still  burns  on, 

Rolls  the  deep  drum : 


80  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Ah,  not  to  elegize  but  emulate 

Is  homage  worthy  of  the  heroic  great, 

Whose  memoried  spot 
Serves  but  to  quicken  fire  from  ashes  long  forgot. 

"Here,  then,  O  little  town  of  Lexington, 

Burnish  anew 
Our  muskets  for  the  battle  long  begun 

For  freedom  !  —  You, 

O  you,  my  comrades,  called  from  all  world-clans, 
Here,  by  the  deeds  of  dear  Americans 

That  cannot  die, 
Let  Lexington  be  still  our  revolution-cry!" 


SCHOOL 
I 

OLD  Hezekiah  leaned  hard  on  his  hoe 

And  squinted  long  at  Eben,  his  lank  son.  — 

The  silence  shrilled  with  crickets.     Day  was  done, 

And,  row  on  dusky  row, 

Tall  bean  poles  ribbed  with  dark  the  gold-bright  after 
glow. 

Eben  stood  staring :   ever,  one  by  one, 
The  tendril  tops  turned  ashen  as  they  flared. 

Still  Eben  stared. 

Oh,  there  is  wonder  on  New  Hampshire  hills, 
Hoeing  the  warm  bright  furrows  of  brown  earth, 
And  there  is  grandeur  in  the  stone  wall's  birth, 

And  in  the  sweat  that  spills 

From  rugged  toil  is  sweetness ;  yet  for  wild  young  wills 
There  is  no  dew  of  wonder,  but  stark  dearth, 
In  one  old  man  who  hoes  his  long  bean  rows, 

And  only  hoes. 

G  81 


82  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Old  Hezekiah  turned  slow  on  his  heel. 

He  touched  his  son.  —  Through  all  the  carking  day 

There  are  so  many  littlish  cares  to  weigh 

Large  natures  down,  and  steel 
The    heart  of   understanding.  —  "Son,   how   is't   ye 

feel? 

What  are  ye  starin'  on  —  a  gal?"     A  ray 
Flushed  Eben  from  the  fading  afterglow : 

He  dropped  his  hoe. 

He  dropped  his  hoe,  but  sudden  stooped  again 
And  raised  it  where  it  fell.  Nothing  he  spoke, 
But  bent  his  knee  and  crack!  the  handle  broke 

Splintering.     With  glare  of  pain, 
He  flung  the  pieces  down,  and  stamped  upon  them; 

then  — 

Like  one  who  leaps  out  naked  from  his  cloak  — 
Ran.  —  "  Here,  come  back !     Where  are  ye  bound  — 

you  fool?" 
He  cried  — "To  school!" 


SCHOOL  83 


II 

Now  on  the  mountain  Morning  laughed  with  light  — 
With  light  and  all  the  future  in  her  face, 
For  there  she  looked  on  many  a  far-off  place 

And  wild  adventurous  sight, 
For  which  the  mad  young  autumn  wind  hallooed  with 

might 

And  dared  the  roaring  mill-brook  to  the  race, 
Where  blue-jays  screamed  beyond  the  pine-dark  pool  — 

"To  school!— To  school!" 

Blackcoated,  Eben  took  the  barefoot  trail, 

Holding  with  wary  hand  his  Sunday  boots ; 

Harsh  catbirds  mocked  his  whistling  with  their  hoots ; 

Under  his  swallowtail 

Against  his  hip-strap  bumping,  clinked  his  dinner  pail ; 
Frost  maples  flamed,  lone  thrushes  touched  their  lutes ; 
Gray  squirrels  bobbed,  with  tails  stiff  curved  to  backs, 

To  eye  his  tracks. 


84  THE   PRESENT   HOUR 

Soon  at  the  lonely  crossroads  he  passed  by 
The  little  one-room  schoolhouse.     He  peered  in. 
There  stood  the  bench  where  he  had  often  been 

Admonished  flagrantly 

To  drone  his  numbers :     Now  to  this  he  said  good 
bye 

For  mightier  lure  of  more  romantic  scene : 
Goodbye  to  childish  rule  and  homely  chore 

Forevermore ! 

All  day  he  hastened  like  the  flying  cloud 
Breathless  above  him,  big  with  dreams,  yet  dumb. 
With    tightened    jaw    he    chewed    the    tart    spruce 
gum, 

And  muttered  half  aloud 
Huge  oracles.     At  last,  where  through  the  pine-tops 

bowed 

The  sun,  it  rose  !  —  His  heart  beat  like  a  drum. 
There,  there  it  rose  —  his  tower  of  prophecy  : 

The  Academy ! 


SCHOOL  85 


III 

They  learn  to  live  who  learn  to  contemplate, 

For  contemplation  is  the  unconfined 

God  who  creates  us.     To  the  growing  mind 

Freedom  to  think  is  fate, 

And  all  that  age  and  after-knowledge  augurate 
Lies  in  a  little  dream  of  youth  enshrined : 
That  dream  to  nourish  with  the  skilful  rule 

Of  love  —  is  school. 

Eben,  in  mystic  tumult  of  his  teens, 

Stood  bursting  —  like  a  ripe  seed  —  into  soul. 

All  his  life  long  he  had  watched  the  great  hills  roll 

Their  shadows,  tints  and  sheens 
By    sun-    and    moon-rise;    yet    the    bane    of    hoeing 

beans 

And  round  of  joyless  chores,  his  father's  toll, 
Blotted  their  beauty ;    nature  was  as  not : 

He  had  never  thought. 


86  THE    PRESENT   HOUR 

But  now  he  climbed  his  boyhood's  castle  tower 
And  knocked :    Ah,  well  then  for  his  after-fate 
That  one  of  nature's  masters  opened  the  gate, 

Where  like  an  April  shower 
Live  influence  quickened  all  his  earth-blind  seed  to 

power. 

Strangely  his  sense  of  truth  grew  passionate, 
And  like  a  young  bull,  led  in  yoke  to  drink, 

He  bowed  to  think. 

There  also  bowed  their  heads  with  him  to  quaff  — 
The  snorting  herd !     And  many  a  wholesome  grip 
He  had  of  rivalry  and  fellowship. 

Often  the  game  was  rough, 

But  Eben  tossed  his  horns  and  never  called  it  off; 
For  still   through    play  and    task   his    Dream  would 

slip  — 
A  radiant  Herdsman,  guiding  destiny 

To  his  degree. 


SCHOOL  87 


IV 

Once  more  old  Hezekiah  stayed  his  hoe 
To  squint  at  Eben.     Silent,  Eben  scanned 
A  little  roll  of  sheepskin  in  his  hand, 

While,  row  on  dusky  row, 

Tall  bean  poles  ribbed  with  dark  the  gold-bright  after 
glow. 

The  boy  looked  up :    Here  was  another  land ! 
Mountain  and  farm  with  mystic  beauty  flared 

Where  Eben  stared. 

Stooping,  he  lifted  with  a  furtive  smile 

Two  splintered  sticks,  and  spliced  them.     Nevermore 

His  spirit  would  go  beastwise  to  his  chore 

Blinded,  for  even  while 

He  stooped  to  the  old  task,  sudden  in  the  sunset's  pile 
His  radiant  Herdsman  swung  a  fiery  door, 
Through  which  came  forth  with  far-borne  trumpetings 

Poets  and  kings, 


88  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

His  fellow  conquerors :    There  Virgil  dreamed, 
There  Caesar  fought  and  won  the  barbarous  tribes, 
There  Darwin,  pensive,  bore  the  ignorant  gibes, 

And  One  with  thorns  redeemed 
From  malice  the  wild  hearts  of  men  :  there  flared  and 

gleamed 

With  chemic  fire  the  forges  of  old  scribes, 
Testing  anew  the  crucibles  of  toil 

To  save  God's  soil. 

So  Eben  turned  again  to  hoe  his  beans; 

But  now,  to  ballads  which  his  Herdsman  sung, 

Henceforth  he  hoed  the  dream  in  with  the  dung, 

And  for  his  ancient  spleens 

Planting  new  joys,  imagination  found  him  means.  — 
At  last  old  Hezekiah  loosed  his  tongue : 
"  Well,  boy,  this  school  —  what  has  it  learned  ye  to 
know?" 

He  said:    "To  hoe." 


THE  PLAYER 

[Shakspere] 

His  wardrobe  is  the  world,  and  day  and  night 

His  many-mirror 'd  dressing  room  :    At  dawn 

He  apes  the  elvish  faun, 

Or,  garbed  in  saffron  hose  and  scarlet  shoon, 

Mimics  the  madcap  sprite 

Of  ever-altering  youth ;    at  chime  of  noon 

He  wears  the  azure  mail  and  blazoned  casque 

Of  warring  knighthood;   till,  at  starry  stroke 

Of  dark,  all  pale  he  dons  his  "inky  cloak" 

And  meditates  —  the  waning  moon  his  tragic  mask. 

His  theatre  is  the  soul,  and  man  and  woman 
His  infinite  repertory:    Age  on  age, 
Treading  his  fancy's  stage, 
Ephemeral  shadows  of  his  master  mind, 
We  act  our  parts  —  the  human 

Players  of  scenes  long  since  by  him  designed ; 

80 


90  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

And  stars,  that  blaze  in  tinsel  on  our  boards, 

Shine  with  a  moment's  immortality 

Because  they  are  his  understudies,  free 

For  one  aspiring  hour  to  sound  his  magic  chords. 

For  not  with  scholars  and  their  brain-worn  scripts, 
Nor  there  behind  the  footlights'  fading  glow 
Shakspere  survives  :    ah,  no  ! 
Deep  in  the  passionate  reality 
Of  raging  life  above  the  darkling  crypts 
Of  death,  he  meditates  the  awed  "To  be 
Or  not  to  be"  of  millions,  yet  to  whom 
His  name  is  nothing;    there,  on  countless  quests, 
Unlettered  Touchstones  quibble  with  his  jests, 
Unlaureled  Hamlets  yearn,  and  anguished  Lears  up- 
loom. 

Leave,  then,  to  Avon's  spire  and  silver  stream 
Their  memory  of  ashes  sung  and  sighed : 
Our  Shakspere  never  died, 


THE    PLAYER  91 

Nor  ever  was  born,  save  as  the  god  is  born 
From  every  soul  that  dares  to  doubt  and  dream. 
He  dreams  —  but  is  not  mortal :    eve  and  morn, 
Dirge  and  delight,  float  from  his  brow  like  prayer. 
Beside  him,  charmed  Apollo  lifts  his  lyre; 
Below,  the  heart  of  man  smoulders  in  fire; 
Between  the  two  he  stands,  timeless  —  the  poet-player. 


TO  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 
(On  first  reading  her  play  "The  Wolf  of  Gubbio") 

CONJURESS,  here 

YouVe  poured,  all  clear, 

In  a  cup,  a  carven  crystal  cup  — 

Pied  with  lights  that  flush  and  falter 

And  flower  again  — 

All  in  a  three-rimmed  loving-cup 

Fit  for  the  dear  Madonna's  altar, 

Where  thieves  and  shrews  and  wolvish  men 

And  wondering  children  may  come  to  sup  — 

All  in  a  cup,  a  shining  cup, 

Held  by  the  trembling  paws  and  fingers 

Of  your  divine  dog  Fra  Lupone 

And  him,  his  crony, 

Whose  loving  laughter  lingers 

In  the  echo  of  song  that  bubbles  so  easy 

In  syllabling:    d'Assissi!    d'Assissi! 
92 


JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY  93 

Him,  large  white  soul  in  the  simple  wee  body  — 

Pulsing,  you've  poured  in  a  glowing  cup 

For  joy  of  our  generations  — 

Wine :   wine  distilled  from  the  art 

And  the  sheen 

Of  the  mind  and  the  heart 

Of  Josephine 

Preston  Peabody.  — 

Fair  befall  her !  —  Felicitations  ! 


PROLOGUE   AND   EPILOGUE   TO  A   BIRD 
MASQUE 

PROLOGUE 
Enter  FANTASY,   who  speaks: 

GENTLES,  just  now  I  met  an  elf 

Who  crooked  mid-air  his  finger  joint 

To  beckon  me,  poising  himself 

Sheer  on  a  shining  question-point; 

And  there  he  cried :  "  Who  may  you  be  ? 

Where  are  you  bound,  if  one  may  ask? 

What  are  these  birds  that  hold  a  masque? 

What  is  a  masque?  What  witchery 

Can  cause  my  woodland  boughs  to  grace 

This  walled  and  crowded  shut-in  place? 

How  may  divine  Aurora  rise 

Under  a  roof  ?     That  parchment  scroll  - 

What's  written  there?"  — I  said:    "Replies 

To  elves  like  you,  who  claim  their  toll 

Of  answers."     So  I  cast  my  eyes 

Downward,  and  read  this  from  my  roll : 
94 


PROLOGUE  95 


I 

Follow  me,  Gentles !    Follow  me 

By  hidden  paths,  for  I  am  Fantasy :  — 

Between  the  ear  and  what  is  heard, 

Betwixt  the  eye  and  what  is  seen, 

Midway  the  poet  and  his  word 

I  hold  my  shadowy  demesne. 

And  there  to-night  I  act  a  thing  — 

Nor  drama  nor  lyric  but  mid-way  — 

Wrought  for  my  fairy  folk  to  sing 

And  real  folk  to  play. 

Your  nature  critic  does  not  ask 

Robin  to  nest  with  wren, 

Yet  both  are  birds :    Why  argue,  then, 

What  drama  is,  or  masque? 

My  theatre's  art  is  nature's,  when 

It  serves  the  creator's  task. 


96  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

II 

Then,  follow  me,  Gentles,  if  you  will ! 

To  follow  means  but  tarry  still 

Here  in  your  seats,  for  I  will  bring 

Horizons  for  your  journeying, 

Till  soon  this  many-murmured  hall 

Shall  be  for  you  a  silent  wood, 

Where  we  may  watch,  through  leafy  solitude, 

Quercus  the  faun,  and  hear  his  echo  call 

In  sighing  surds 

The  vowel-bubbling  birds, 

And  spy  where  Dawn  steals  past  with  pale  footfall. 

Ill 

Come,  then,  for  this  can  only  be 
If  you  will  follow  Fantasy. 
No  magic  is,  except  through  me; 
Yet  I  myself  can  nothing  do 
Alone ;    my  radiance  'tis  from  you. 


PROLOGUE  97 


For  if  in  woods  I  walk  alone 

No  light  will  be  around  me  thrown; 

And  if  alone  you  walk  the  woods, 

Your  eyes  will  blink  through  darkening  hoods. 

IV 

Come,  then,  together  let  us  go, 
As  birds  and  men  together  meet 
Where  boughs  are  dim  and  woodlands  sweet 
With  meditation.     Meeting  so, 
My  simplest  arts 

Will  serve  to  please  you,  and  unblind 
Your  own  rapt  vision;    for  kind  hearts 
Need  no  compulsion  to  be  kind 
To  their  own  natures.     So  the  mind 
Amongst  you  which  shall  act  most  feelingly 
^My  simple  masque,  and  find  the  fewest  flaws, 
Shall  win  my  best  award,  and  he  (or  she) 
Be  showered  by  my  players'  glad  applause. 


98  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

EPILOGUE 

Gentles,  if  you  have  followed  me, 
Now  is  no  need  to  say  goodbye; 
For  we  shall  meet  in  revery 
Wherever  glad  birds  sing  and  fly  — 
Wherever  sad  birds  bleed  and  dumbly  die. 

Oh,  where  they  mount  on  wings  and  song 
'Tis  we  who  mount  there  —  you  and  I ; 
And  where  they  fall  and  suffer  wrong 
JTis  we  who  perish  —  you  and  I : 
Our  own  is  Ornis'  pain  or  ecstasy. 

So,  at  fresh  rise  and  set  of  sun, 

May  Ornis  bring  her  joy  to  you,  each  one, 

And  Tacita  her  dreams !  —  Our  masque  is  done. 


THE  SONG  SPARROW 

WHEN  June  was  cool  and  clover  long 
And  birds  were  glad  in  soul  and  body, 

I  sat  me  down  to  make  a  song, 
And  sweltered  in  my  study: 

I  swinked  and  sweat  with  weary  art 

To  tell  how  merry  was  my  heart. 

With  weary  art  and  wordy  choice 

I  toiled,  when  sudden  —  low  and  breezy 

I  heard  a  little  friendly  voice 
Call :    Simple,  simple,  so  easy  ! 

I  heard,  yet  sat  apart  in  dole 

To  sing  how  social  was  my  soul. 

In  vain !  —  That  artless  voice  went  round 

In  tiny  echoes  faint  and  teasy. 
I  rose :    "  What  toil  then,  have  you  found 

Simple,  simple,  so  easy?" 
99 


100  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Dauntless,  the  bird,  with  dewy  beak, 
Carolled  again  his  cool  critique. 

Nay,  song  it  is  a  simple  thing 
For  hearts  that  seek  no  reason : 

Relentless  bird,  why  should  you  sing 
Who  are  the  happy  season  ?  — 

Still  why!    The  root  of  joy  I  seek, 

While  laughter  ripples  from  your  beak. 

No  wonder,  then,  the  bard's  pen  creaks, 
The  critic's  drone  grows  wheezy, 

When  joy  the  June  bird  never  seeks 
Is  simple,  simple,  so  easy! 

While  we,  who  find  our  art  so  long, 

Still  make  a  subterfuge  of  song ! 


TO  AN  UPLAND  PLOVER 

CRESCENT-WING'D,  sky-clean 
Hermit  of  pastures  wild, 

Upland  plover,  shy-soul'd  lover 
Of  field  ways  undefiled ! 
I  watch  your  curve-tipt  pinion  glean  — 
Slim  as  a  scythe  —  the  rusty  green 

Reaches  of  sweet-fern  cover 
That  slant  to  your  secret  glade, 
But  what  you  cull  with  your  rhythmic  blade 
What  mortal  can  discover? 

Azure-born,  gale-blown 
Gull  of  the  billowy  hills, 

My  heart  goes  forth  to  see  you  hover 
So  far  from  human  sills, 

To  hear  your  tweeting,  shrill  and  lone, 
101 


102  THE    PRESENT   HOUR 

Make  from  the  moorgrass  such  sharp  moan 

As  some  unshriven  lover, 
For  you  are  sorrow-wise 
With  memory,  whose  passions  rise 

Whence  no  man  may  discover. 

Reticent,  rare  of  song, 

Rears  the  shy  soul  its  pain : 

You  sought  no  cottage  eave  as  cover 
To  dole  a  dulcet  plain; 
But  swift,  on  pinions  lithe  and  strong, 
You  sought  a  place  for  your  wild  wrong 

God  only  might  discover, 
And  there  God,  calling,  came, 
And  flies  with  you  in  His  white  flame  — 
Your  wilding  mate,  O  plover  I 


RAIN  REVERY 

IN  the  lone  of  night  by  the  pattering  tree 

I  sat  alone  with  Poetry  — 

With  Poetry,  my  old  shy  friend, 

And  his  tenuous  shadow  seemed  to  blend  — 

Beyond  the  lampshine  on  the  sill  — 

With  the  mammoth  shadow  of  the  hill, 

And  his  breath  fell  soft  on  the  pool-dark  pane 

With  the  murmurous,  murmuring  muffled  hoof 

Of  the  rain,  the  rain 

The  rain  on  the  roof. 

In  the  vast  of  night  and  its  vacancy 

I  prayed  aloud  to  Poetry, 

And  his  luminous  eyes  grew  large  and  dim 

As  my  heart-pulse  quickened  to  question  him; 

For  out  of  that  rumbling  rhymeless  rune 

He  only  might  know,  by  a  sense  atune, 

103 


104  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

To  unravel  the  anguish,  and  render  vain 
The  remorseless  will  that  wove  the  woof 
Of  the  rain,  the  rain 
The  rain  on  the  roof. 

So  I  cried :    "  What  mute  conspiracy 

Have  you  made  with  the  night,  O  Poetry? 

Lover  and  friend  of  my  warm  doorway, 

Do  you  crouch  there  too  on  the  storm-soaked  clay  ? 

Did  you  creep  indoors  when  that  gust  of  damp 

Raised  the  dead  moon-moths  round  my  lamp 

And  the  wan  flame  guttered  ?  —  Hark,  again ! 

Do  you  ride  there  —  so  close,  so  aloof  — 

With  the  rain,  the  rain 

The  rain  on  the  roof? 

"Ah,  what  of  the  rapture  and  melody 

We  might  have  wrought,  dear  Poetry! 

Imagined  tower  and  dream-built  shrine, 

Must  they  crumble  in  dark  like  this  pale  lampshine? 


RAIN    REVERY  105 

Our  dawn-flecked  meadows  lyric-shrill, 

Shall  they  lie  as  dumb  as  the  gloom-drenched  hill? 

Our  song- voiced  lovers  !  —  Shall  none  remain  ?  "  — 

Under  the  galloping,  gusty  hoof 

Answered  the  rain,  rain 

Rain  on  the  roof. 


THE  HEART  IN  THE  JAR 

A  Meditation  on  the  Nobel  Prize  Award  for  Medical 
Research,  1912 


ALIVE  it  beats  in  a  bosom  of  glass  — 

A  glowing  heart ! 

It  has  come  to  pass  I 

Ventricle,  auricle, 

Artery  quivering: 

No  metaphorical 

x 

Symbol  of  art, 

No  cold,  mechanical  trick  of  a  cog, 

But  ardent  —  an  organ  mysterious, 

Alive,  delivering 

Serene,  continuous 

Pulses,  poised  in  its  chamber  of  glass, 

Beating  —  the  heart  of  a  dog  ! 
106 


THE    HEART    IN    THE    JAR         107 

II 

And  it  came  to  pass 

While  the  hearts  of  men 

Were  selling  and  buying 

The  blood  of  their  brothers, 

Then,  even  then  — 

While  grocer  and  draper 

And  soldier  were  eying 

Their  market-news  in  the  morning  paper, 

And,  musing  there  among  the  others, 

Their  poet  of  words 

Stood  staring  —  his  back  to  the  laboratory 

(Where  the  poet  of  life 

Plied  ether  and  knife)  — 

Stood  musing  his  rhymes  for  a  miracle-story 

Of  Babylon  queens  or  Attic  birds. 


108  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

III 

Yet  others  were  there  more  strange 
(More  strange,  as  they  spoke  in  the  holy  name 
Of  the  human  heart,  while  still  their  eyes 
Were  blind  to  the  light  love's  visions  range)  — 
For  they  cried  :    "  Lo,  the  dog  —  he  dies  ! 
Spare  him  the  knife !    What  have  ye  done, 
Awarders  of  fame!    Will  you  grant  to  one 
Who  slaughters  —  the  great  world-prize  ?  " 
Yet  these  are  the  same 
Who  cherish  the  deed  and  worship  the  pain 

Of  saints  that  offered  their  blood  in  fire 

\ 

For  the  meed  of  men, 

And  these  are  the  same  who  bend  the  knee 

To  One  who  hung  on  the  bleeding  tree 

Under  the  seraphim: 

In  the  name  —  in  the  hallowed  name  of  Him 

Who  raised  us  from  Caliban, 

Would  they  grudge  to  a  dog  —  what  a  god  might  aspire 

To  render  his  heart  for  the  Heart  of  Man  ? 


THE    HEART    IN   THE    JAR         109 

IV 

How  calm  in  its  crystal  tomb 

It  beats  to  the  mandate  of  life! 

How  hush  it  waits  in  the  sexless  womb 

For  the  hour  of  its  strange  midwife  — 

The  seer,  whose  talismanic  touch 

Shall  give  it  birth  in  another  —  what  ? 

The  heart  of  a  dog  once,  was  it  not? 

So  then,  if  it  still  be  such, 

Why,  then,  the  dog  —  (cur,  thoroughbred, 

Mastiff,  was  it,  or  hound  ?)  — 

What  of  the  dog  ?  —  is  he  quick  or  dead  ? 

His  soul  (as  they  used  to  say) 

In  what  Elysian  field  should  he  stray, 

Or  where  lie  down  in  his  grave? 

For  hark !  — 

Through  the  clear  concave 

Of  the  glass,  that  delicate  pulsing  sound ! 

Ah,  once,  how  it  whirred  in  the  flooded  dark 

Of  his  deep-lunged  chest,  with  rhythmic  beat 


110  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

To  the  wild  curvet  of  his  wonderful  feet 

And  the  rapturous  passion  of  his  bark, 

As  he  welcomed  his  homing  master's  hand, 

To  crouch  at  the  quick  command ! 

Yet  it  never  has  ceased  to  beat :  — 

Charmed  by  the  poet  of  life, 

Freed  by  his  art  and  the  cunning  knife 

That  counterfoils  the  shears  of  fate, 

See  it  quiver  now  in  that  golden  bar 

Of  noon  —  unlaboring,  isolate, 

Alive,  in  a  crystal  jar ! 


The  heart  of  a  dog  —  why  pause  ? 

Why  pause  on  your  brink,  bright  jar?    Or  why 

This  reticent  allocution? 

A  dog !  —  Shall  I  stop  at  to-day,  because 

To-morrow  it  might  be  I  ?  — 

Yea,  and  if  it  be! 

Even  this  heart  of  me 


THE    HEART    IN    THE    JAR         111 

The  subtle  bard  of  life  with  his  blade 

To  sever  from  out  the  mystic  whole 

I  have  deemed  my  Soul  • 

And  shatter  me  —  like  no  cloven  shade 

Divined  by  a  Dante's  ecstasy  — 

In  morsels  to  immortality, 

Piecemeal  to  dissolution! 

This,  then,  that  knocks  at  my  breast  — 
Starting  at  the  image  of  its  own  inquest 
Hung  in  a  gleaming  jar  —  this  sentient  thing 
Responsive  in  the  night 
To  messages  of  grandeur  and  delight, 
Pensive  to  Winter,  passionate  to  Spring, 
Mounting  on  strokes  of  music's  rhythmic  wing, 
Beating  more  swift  when  my  beloved's  cheek 
Ruddies  with  rapture  the  tongue  fails  to  speak, 
And  pausing  quite 
When  her  rose  turns  to  white  — 
This  servant,  delicate  to  suffering, 


112  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Insurgent  to  restraint,  soothed  by  redress, 
This  shall  the  life-bard  place  upon  his  shelf 
•Beside  the  dog  —  and  both  shall  acquiesce. 

VI 

For  he  —  artist  of  baffling  life  —  himself 

Sculptor  and  plastic  instrument  — 

He  holds  within  his  hand  the  vast  intent, 

And  carves  from  out  the^crimson  clay  of  death 

Incredible  images 

Of  quickening  fauns,  and  headless  victories 

More  terrible  than  her  of  Samothrace,  — 

Yea,  toys  with  such  as  these, 

As,  silent,  he  lifts  a  severed  Gorgon's  face 

Toward  his  own; 

(The  watchers  hold  their  breath, 

Hiding  their  dread.) 

Calmly  he  looks  —  nor  turns  to  stone, 

But  with  a  touch  freezes  the  sphinx  instead. 

Till  last,  all  pale,  beside  him  —  like  a  dream 


THE    HEART    IN    THE    JAR         113 

That  rises  into  daylight  out  of  sleep  — 

Death  rises  from  the  mystic,  crimson  stream 

And  murmurs  at  his  ear:    "What,  then,  am  I? 

And  what  art  thou  whose  scalpel  strikes  so  deep 

To  slay  me?     Yea,  I  felt  it  glance  me  by 

And  I  am  wounded !  Give  it  me  ! "  —  They  clutch  : 

Death  snatches,  and  his  frozen  fingers  touch 

The  scalpel's  edge  —  when  lo,  a  lightning  gleam 

Ruddies  their  wrestling  shadows  on  the  night; 

Immense  they  lengthen  down  the  vasty  gloom 

And  darken  in  their  height 

The  rafters  of  a  silent  room : 

Around  its  walls,  ranged  in  the  crystal  jars 

Of  infinite  stars, 

Beat,  as  they  burn,  the  myriad  hearts  of  life ; 

In  lordship,  where  their  lonely  shadows  loom, 

Death  and  the  Artist  grapple  for  the  knife. 


NEW  POEMS 


THREE   DANCE  MOTIVES 

Imagined  for  dances  of  Isadora  Duncan 
I.   LETHE 

ALONE  by  a  starless  sea 

I  lay  with  Sorrow ; 
And  mists  of  slumber  breathed 

From  the  mouth  of  my  lover ; 

And  I  rose  from  his  numbing  arms 
And  moaned  :   "  O,  release  me ! 

Let  me  flame,  let  me  leap  once  more 
On  the  hills  of  vision ! " 

Then  one  by  one  stood  round  us 

Stars  of  the  morning  : 
Their  lyric  bodies  sang, 

Their  torch-limbs  beckoned ; 
117 


118  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

But  the  fog  of  my  blind  lover's  breath 

Congealed  their  burning 
Till  they  drooped  on  the  banks  of  dawn 

Like  lilies  frost-slain, 

And  I  drooped  to  his  lethal  lips 

Of  anguish,  and  lay  there 
Till  the  shy  Stars  bloomed  again 

By  shores  of  the  evening, 

Beckoning  anew,  with  their  palms 

Of  flame,  to  rejoin  them 
On  the  Mountains  of  Joy,  and  once  more 

I  rose  in  my  yearning 

And  gazed :  I  am  coming  !    But  ah ! 

The  arrows  of  my  gazing 
Pierced  them  there,  side  by  side, 

And  they  waned  by  the  waters, 


THREE    DANCE    MOTIVES          119 

Lying  like  mermaids,  dead 

In  the  shoals  of  twilight.  — 
Then  my  soul  waned  with  them,  and  kissed 

The  cold  mouth  of  my  lover. 

But  still,  through  the  pulsing  mists 

Of  our  pitiful  dreaming, 
I  feel  their  immortal  eyes 

Burning  with  wonder. 


II.  DIONYSUS 

Dionysus !  —  io !  lo !  —  Dionysus  ! 
Who  hath  rolled  back  the  rock  from  the  cave  Cim 
merian 

And  blinded  the  world  with  morning  ? 
Dionysus !  —  thou !  —  It  is  thou,  Dionysus ! 
Out  of  the  niggard,  numbing  dark  of  the  ages 
Thou,  from  the  dead,  art  restored ! 


120  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Stark  from  the  Tree  of  Pain, 

Crucified,  bleeding,  disowned, 

They  bore  the  beautiful  God  of  our  Joy  to  his  charnel : 

But  there  in  the  flaming  dark,  thou  —  thou,  his  seraph, 

Rolled  back  the  awful  stone 

For  the  Lord  of  Life  —  new  risen. 

Dionysus !  —  io !  lo  !  —  Dionysus ! 

Lo !  thy  grapes  are  the  clustering  hearts  of  children 

And  the  wine  of  these  is  thy  worship. 

Dionysus !  —  once  more !  —  Once  more,  Dionysus, 

Thou  revealest  our  God,  who  is  One  through  all  ages  :  — 

The  Lord  of  Life  is  regained ! 


III.  THE  CHASE 

Through  what  vast  wood, 

By  what  wild  paths  of  beautiful  surprise, 

Hast  thou  returned  to  us, 

Diana,  Diana  of  Desire  ? 


THREE    DANCE    MOTIVES          121 

Coming  to  thy  call 
What  huntresses  are  these  ? 

What   hallowed   chase?     What   long,   long   cherished 
goal? 

Through  man's  wan  mind 
By  radiant  paths  of  rhythmic  liberty 
I  am  returned  to  you, 
Diviner,  diviner  of  dreams  ! 

Those  huntresses,  they  are  my  hallowed  desires  — 
My  unquenched  selves  with  overflowing  quivers. 
Joy  is  our  chase  and  goal : 

Our  bodies  the  tense  crossbows,  and  our  wild  souls  the 
shafts  1 


THE  BANDBOX  THEATRE1 

LADIES  and  Gentlemen,  to-night  we  christen 
Our  little  new-born  venture.  —  If  you'll  listen 
Let  us,  therefore,  bethink  ourselves  a  minute : 
"What's  in  a  name?"  Methinks  to  us  what's  in  it 
Implies  —  what's  in  a  bandbox  ?  But  what's  that  ? 

A  bandbox,  you  will  say,  implies  a  hat ; 
Nay,  more,  a  hat  that's  shapely  to  a  head ; 
But  shapeliness  implies  the  power  to  shed 
Charm  to  the  eyes  —  in  short,  to  an  audience, 
And  meaning  you,  that  means  —  intelligence. 
So  from  our  bandbox  (when  the  lid  is  off) 
We  hope  to  furnish  headgear  fair  enough 
To  fit  your  high-bred  choice  in  varied  modes 
Adapted  to  your  pleasures  and  the  codes 

1  An  Epilogue  for  the  opening  night,  New  York,  December  16, 
1914,  spoken  by  one  of  the  actors. 

122 


THE  BANDBOX  THEATRE    123 

Of  modern  workmanship  in  world-old  art, 
Building  for  these  a  little  place  apart 
With  roof  and  walls,  to  shelter  from  bad  weather 
King  Richard's  crown  or  Lady  Teazel's  feather. 

Such  is  our  Bandbox.     To  deserve  the  name 
Implies,  you  see,  your  sanction  to  the  same. 
Your  good-will  is  our  garland.     Help  us  win  it ! 
Our  Bandbox  holds  the  palm  —  while  you  are  in  it  I 


TO   "E.   A." 

[Edwin  Arlington  Robinson] 

WITH  CAKE  AND  CANDLES1 

E.  A.  —  Of  all  the  alphabet 

That  combination  is  the  key 

To  unlock  a  door  of  memory 

Into  a  quiet  hall-room,  set 

With  pen  and  pipe,  where  smoke  of  fancy 

Swathes  with  a  gentle  necromancy 

(Remote  from  Gotham's  glare  and  racket) 

One  who  reclines  in  crimson  jacket 

And  smiles,  in  cryptic  meditation, 

To  hold  a  friendly  hand  to  me.  — 

E.  A.  !  —  Yes,  there's  the  combination : 

The  door  turns  inward  to  the  light 

Of  kind  eyes  through  the  dark.  —  To-night 

Candles  illumine  there,  like  day, 

The  sign  above  the  knocker :  See ! 

Entra,  ^4mice,  #emane !  —  Thanks ;  your  key 

I  turn,  E.  A.  - 

To  friendship  the  true  way. 

1  On  his  birthday  :  23  December,  1914. 
124 


CHARLES  KLEIN:  DRAMATIST 
Died   7   May,    1915   on   the   Lusitania 

THE  arc-lights  gleamed  on  glare  Broadway 
Where  the  people  passed  to  see  his  play  — 
To  mingle  their  own  mirth  and  fears 
With  players'  laughter,  players'  tears ; 

Yet  while  they  watched,  they  little  wist 

The  presence  of  the  dramatist : 

The  practiced  hand,  the  artful  means 

Of  the  mind  that  moved  behind  the  scenes. 

Only  the  glamour  which  he  wrought 
Instilled  its  purpose  —  stirred  their  thought, 
And  made  its  glow  and  color  blaze 

Unconscious  on  their  after-ways. 
125 


126  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

But  once,  against  an  awful  hour, 
They  saw  him  loom  —  they  felt  a  power 
Whose  blinding  and  immortal  ray 
Put  out  the  arc-lights  of  Broadway 

To  show  a  planet  all  on  fire  ; 
And  there  —  one  instant  on  that  pyre  — 
He  stood  with  those  who  held  strange  tryst 
With  Death  —  the  master  dramatist. 

There  shines  his  great  memorial, 
And  we  who  shudder  at  his  pall 
Cannot  in  fitting  phrase  relate 
An  elegy  more  grand  than  fate ; 

For  make-believe  of  mirth  and  fears, 
And  players'  laughter,  players'  tears, 
Take  on  more  vast  and  solemn  range 
That  he  has  suffered  that  sea-change.  — 


CHARLES    KLEIN:    DRAMATIST    127 

„  Broadway  goes  by  :  new  players  tread 
Old  boards,  but  still  their  memoried  dead 
Act  on  in  lordlier  demesnes  — 
Moved  by  the  Soul  behind  the  scenes. 


EDISON 

A  THOUSAND  leagues  on  the  Arctic  sea 
A  ship  went  down  through  the  frozen  floe. 
Captain  and  crew  they  watched  her  go : 

They  ran  her  colors  free ; 

They  cheered  her  lustily ; 
And  far  peoples  shouted  her  praise  with  them 
Where  a  phonograph  from  her  plunging  stem 
Pealed  to  the  stars  her  requiem. 

A  thousand  leagues  through  the  Afric  wood 
A  man  went  looting  the  jungle's  wealth. 
Leopard  nor  lion  could  stay  his  stealth, 

Nor  sleeping-death,  nor  flood  : 

He  drew  not  the  monsters'  blood, 
But  he  led  them  alive  through  the  scorching  day 
By  a  tape  of  moving  film,  to  play 
With  the  wondering  children  of  Broadway. 
128 


EDISON  129 


A  thousand  leagues  or  a  thousand  years 
Are  motes  in  the  gaze  of  the  seeking  mind : 
By  its  own  radiance  thought  can  find 

Its  way  to  ultimate  spheres, 

Dark,  till  its  beam  appears 
To  blazon  them.     So  on  that  beam  hath  run 
Round  Arctic  moon  and  Afric  sun 
The  electric  mind  of  Edison. 

Through  delicate  engine  and  disk  and  reel 
He  quickens  the  elemental  Cause, 
Kindling  the  lightnings  of  its  laws 

Till  atoms  of  jelly  and  steel 

Are  made  to  stir  and  feel, 
And  mortals  that  long  have  ceased  to  be 
Live  on,  for  the  world  to  hear  and  see, 
In  a  semblance  of  immortality. 

The  throbbing  ticker  resounds  his  fame 
With  its  ominous  pulse,  and  the  mart  responds, 
K 


130  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Selling  his  magic  in  stocks  and  bonds ; 
But  they,  who  toss  his  name 
With  gold  in  their  mighty  game, 
Behold  not  the  soul  of  the  mightier  One 
Who  sits  in  the  brain  of  an  Edison 
And  weighs  the  dreams,  when  all  is  done. 

For  all  that  the  millions  sell  and  buy 
And  wrangle  for,  is  a  dreamful  thing 
Wrought  of  a  lone  imagining : 
Tower'd  cities,  that  top  our  sky, 
Loomed  first  on  the  pensive  eye 
Of  brooding  architects ;  the  glories 
Of  art  and  science,  their  sounding  stories, 
Have  birth  from  silent  laboratories. 

So  out  of  his  visioning  silences 
The  great  inventor  reveals  to  us 
New  pathways  of  nature,  perilous 

With  unknown  skies  and  seas, 

For  new  astronomies 


EDISON  131 


To  chart,  and  each  dim  discovered  trail 

Is  lit  by  the  gleam  of  a  lurid  grail 

With  the  legend :  What  shall  the  search  avail? 

What  at  last  shall  avail  our  invention  ?    Yea, 
What  avails  our  soul  its  cunning  brain 
If  our  paths  be  hatred,  our  goal  be  pain  ? 

Brain  searches  in  cloud  and  clay, 

But  our  soul  must  point  us  the  way 
Through  cloud  to  a  star,  through  clay  to  God's  breath, 
Or  else  it  were  wiser  to  welcome  death 
On  the  star-lit  road  to  Nazareth. 

But  they  shall  avail  —  both  —  brain  and  soul ; 
They  avail  us  now  in  him  who  has  won 
Earth's  wondering  homage  —  Edison  : 

For  his  mind  has  held  as  its  goal 

The  good  of  a  world  made  whole, 
And  his  spirit  girds  it  with  lightning  span  — 
The  planetary  American 
Whose  master-thought  is  the  joy  of  man. 


THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST 

DARKLY  a  mortal  age  has  come  and  gone 
And  man  grown  ancient  in  a  single  year. 
August !  The  summer  month  is  blasted  sere 
With  memories  earth  bleeds  to  dream  upon. 

To  dream  upon !     Ah,  were  we  dreaming  then 
Ere  Europe,  blindfold,  lulled  in  holiday, 
Harkened  the  sudden  thunder  through  her  play 
And,  fumbling,  held  her  breath  to  hark  again, 

Or  is  this  blighted  year  our  dream  ?  —  How  swift 
The  blackening  tempest  fell !     How  vast,  through  fire 
And  cloud  of  Belgium's  rape,  a  planet's  ire 
Flared  on  that  pall  of  shame,  while  through  the  rift 

The  livid  sorrows  racked  our  sympathies ! 

For  still  thought  burned  unclouded  :  Right  and  wrong 

Strove  for  the  palm  as  in  an  epic  song ; 

And  so  we  poured  our  succor  overseas, 

132 


THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST    133 

Neutral  in  act  but  never  in  our  souls, 
Yet  guarding  the  brave  goal  of  peace.     Till  soon  — 
Slow-warping  to  the  waning  year's  blind  moon  — 
The  tide  ebbed  back,  and  in  the  freezing  shoals 

We  stared  upon  the  dead  —  the  dead,  whose  mothers 
Suckled  them  still  in  dreams.     Stark,  mid  the  stench 
And  yellow  choke  that  reeked  from  shell  and  trench, 
They  lay  together  there  —  mere  boys,  and  brothers. 

Were  these  the  epic  hosts  of  Wrong  and  Right 
Whose  clash  had  whirled  us  in  their  spirits'  war  ? 
These  silent  boys  :  what  had  they  battled  for 
To  lie  such  still  bedfellows  in  the  night  ? 

Must  breath  of  dying  brothers  wake  the  brass 
That  thrills  the  call  to  arms  ?     Shall  ghostly  lips 
Summon  the  living  to  the  dark  eclipse 
And  all  their  dearest  shout  to  see  them  pass 


134  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

Merely  for  this :  That  these  who  might  have  shared 
A  simple  handclasp  share  a  bloodied  sod  ?  — 
So  for  a  while  we  gazed  and  questioned  God : 
A  haunted  while :  for  dimly,  as  we  stared, 

Far  off,  we  heard  the  multitudinous  cry 

Of  mangled  Poland,  like  a  cry  in  sleep, 

And  Servia  fever-panting,  and  the  deep 

Half -breathed  self-doubt  of  prisoned  Germany ; 

And  still  far  tidings  blew,  but  that  first  spark 
Of  August  splendor  burned  in  them  no  more ; 
Pity  and  sorrow  palled,  and  custom  wore 
A  deeper  callus  and  a  blur  more  dark, 

Till  sudden  —  the  Lusitania  !     Lightnings  shot 
The  unhallowed  message,  and  a  shuddering  fire 
Leapt  from  our  long-charred  hearts  —  a  glowing  spire, 
And  Europe's  sword  swung  nearer  to  the  knot 


THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST    135 

That  ties  our  bonds  of  peace.     And  now  —  and  now 
The  summer  steals  again  toward  winter's  sleep ; 
The  reaping  time  draws  near  —  ah,  what  to  reap  ? 
And  spring,  that  lurks  beyond,  comes  hither  —  how  ? 

Still,  O  my  Country,  while  we  may,  look  back ! 
The  blighted  year  cries  from  the  charnel  grass : 
Must  breath  of  dying  brothers  wake  the  brass 
That  thrills  the  call  to  arms  ?  —  A  blood-sered  track 

Leads  backward  to  that  other  August  day, 
Prowled  by  the  still  unglutted  Minotaur ; 
But  we,  who  watch  to  slay  that  beast  of  War, 
Shall  we  hunt  him  or  those  he  mangles  ?  —  Say : 

For  reason  has  its  ire  more  just  than  hate ; 
Imagination  has  its  master  hour, 
And  pity  its  foil,  and  mother-love  its  power 
Mightier  than  blood-lust  and  more  obdurate. 


136  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

My  Country  !   poised  in  forward  visioning, 

With  pity,  love  and  reason  let  us  pray 

Our  lives  shall  serve  to  cleanse  this  August  day ! 


The  summer  wanes  :  the  ploughman  comes  with  spring. 


FEDERATION 

OVER  there  —  they  know  the  singeing  and  blinding  of 

sorrow. 
Over  there  they  know  the  young  dead :    they  know 

the  dear 

Touch  of  the  living  that  shall  be  the  dead  to-morrow : 
Here  —  what  know  we  here  ? 

Over  there,  they  feel  the  heart-rage,  the  sick  hating 
Of  bitter  blood-lust,  the  imminent  storm  of  steel, 
Burden  and  pang  of  a  terror  never-abating : 
Here  —  what  do  we  feel  ? 

There,  where  they  snuff  the  reek  of  a  burning  censer 

Borne  by  the  stark-mad  emperors  —  their  pain, 
Tinged  with  a  hallowed  pride,  takes  on  the  intenser 

Soul  of  a  world  insane. 
137 


138  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

We,  who  still  spared  to  reason,  here  where  the  thunder 
And  surge  of  the  madness  dwindle  to  murmurs  and 

cease, 

We  who,  apart,  stand  dazed  by  the  demons  of  plun 
der  — 
How  shall  we  conjure  Peace  ? 


Peace  —  did  we  call  her,  the  gluttonous  mother  who 

suckled 

The  monster  child  her  lust  of  dominion  bore  ? 
Peace  —  did  we  crown  her,  the  secret  harlot  who 
truckled 
To  breed  from  the  loins  of  War  ? 


One  word  —  one  only  will  —  be  ours  in  awaking : 
Nevermore!  Nevermore  let  us  build  for  merely  our 

own. 

Peace  is  not  ours  alone  for  the  making  or  breaking  . 
Peace  is  the  world's  alone. 


FEDERATION  139 

For  the  battle-gauge  is  feud-lust  or  federation. 

The  ultimate  beast  is  enthroned  and  man  is  its  thrall ; 
And  beast  or  man  shall  survive,  as  nation  with  nation 
Fights  —  not  for  one,  but  all. 

A  dream  ?  —  Yes,  the  dream  that  once  was  a  planet's 

derision 

Now  blazons  a  planet's  prayer :  the  cry  to  be  free 
Of  a  world  unconceived  in  woe  of  a  Dante's  vision, 
Or  Christ's  on  the  blasted  tree. 

For  our  deeds  are  the  henchmen  of  dreams.     Since 

only  by  another 
Dream  can  the  dreamer  be  vanquished,   let  ours 

create 

The  beautiful  order  of  brother  united  with  brother : 
Victorious  dreaming  is  fate.  — 

America  —  dreamer  of  dreams !  Be  destiny's  leader, 

Militant  first  for  mankind,  for  so  your  own  soul, 
Blended  of  all,  for  all  shall  be  interceder 
And  guide  to  the  world's  goal. 


CHRISTMAS   1915 

Now  is  the  midnight  of  the  nations  :  dark 
Even  as  death,  beside  her  blood-dark  seas, 
Earth,  like  a  mother  in  birth  agonies, 
Screams  in  her  travail,  and  the  planets  hark 
Her  million-throated  terror.     Naked,  stark, 
Her  torso  writhes  enormous,  and  her  knees 
Shudder  against  the  shadowed  Pleiades, 
Wrenching  the  night's  imponderable  arc, 

Christ !  What  shall  be  delivered  to  the  morn 

Out  of  these  pangs,  if  ever  indeed  another 

Morn  shall  succeed  this  night,  or  this  vast  mother 

Survive  to  know  the  blood-sprent  offspring,  torn 

From  her  racked  flesh  ?  —  What  splendor  from  the 

smother  ? 
What  new-wing'd  world,  or  mangled  god  still-born  ? 


140 


NOTES 


OF  the  poems  collected  in  this  volume,  those  in 
Part  I  (War)  have  been  written  during  the  last  ten 
weeks;  those  in  Part  II  (Peace)  have  been  selected 
from  poems  written  during  the  last  two  years  — 
chiefly  during  1914.  Most  of  them  have  been  pub 
lished,  separately,  in  the  following  journals  and 
newspapers,  to  the  editors  of  which  the  author 
makes  his  acknowledgments:  The  North  American 
Review,  Collier's  Weekly,  The  Outlook,  The  Forum, 
The  Independent,  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  The 
New  York  Times  and  Times  Literary  Supplement,  The 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

NEW  YORK  CITY, 

October  26,  1914. 


142 


NOTES 

MOST  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  written  for 
special  occasions.  These  notes  record  the  dates  and  events 
which  called  forth  their  expression,  as  follows  :  — 

I:  War 

Fight :  written  for  the  centenary  celebration  of  the 
naval  battle  of  Plattsburgh,  and  read  by  the  author  at 
Pittsburgh,  N.Y.,  September  11,  1914. 

In  the  naval  battle  of  Plattsburgh,  the  American  com 
mander  "  Macdonough  himself  worked  like  a  common 
sailor,  in  pointing  and  handling  a  favorite  gun.  While 
bending  over  to  sight  it,  a  round  shot  cut  in  two  the 
spanker  boom,  which  fell  on  his  head  and  struck  him  sense 
less  for  two  or  three  minutes;  he  then  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  continued  as  before,  when  a  shot  took  off  the  head  of  the 
captain  of  the  gun  crew  and  drove  it  in  his  face  with  such 
force  as  to  knock  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  deck." 

The  above  quotation  is  from  "  The  Naval  War  of  1812," 
by  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

The  Conflict :  These  six  sonnets  here  printed  were 
originally  published,  together,  in  the  Boston  Evening 
Transcript,  August  29,  1914.  The  first,  "To  William 
Watson,"  is  a  response  to  a  sonnet  by  Mr.  Watson  entitled 
"  To  the  United  States,"  first  published  in  The  London  Post, 
and  cabled  to  the  New  York  Times. 

The  Lads  of  Liege :  First  printed  in  the  New  York  Times, 
September  2,  1914. 

Carnage :  These  six  sonnets  were  first  published,  together, 
in  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  September  26,  1914. 

The  Muffled  Drums :  These  stanzas  (published  in  the 
New  York  Evening  Post,  September  3, 1914)  were  written 
143 


144  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 

with  reference  to  the  Peace  Procession  of  Women  in  New 
York  City,  August  29,  1914. 

Antwerp:  The  early  press  accounts  of  the  storming  of 
Antwerp  by  the  Germans  told  of  great  damage  to  the  city's 
architecture.  Later  accounts  have  described  a  less  amount 
of  physical  injury  inflicted.  This  sonnet,  however,  has  refer 
ence  less  to  the  physical  violence,  than  to  the  spiritual 
violation  wrought  by  unwarranted  invaders. 

Men  of  Canada :  First  printed  in  the  Boston  Evening  Tran 
script,  October  17, 1914,  shortly  after  the  sailing  of  Canadian 
troops  to  England. 

The  Child-Dancers :  The  little  children  of  the  Isadora 
Duncan  School  of  Dancing,  to  whom  these  verses  refer, 
came  to  America  in  September,  owing  to  conditions  of  war 
in  France.  Russian,  German,  French,  and  English,  they 
form  a  happy  and  harmonious  family  of  the  belligerent 
races. 

A  Prayer  of  the  Peoples :  This  poem  was  written  on  the  day 
of  President  Wilson's  Call  to  Prayer,  Sunday,  October  4, 
1914.  It  was  published  in  the  New  York  Times,  on  October 
fifth. 

In  Memoriam  :  Mrs.  Woodrow  Wilson  :  These  stanzas  were 
first  printed  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  August  13, 
1914.  Shortly  before  her  death,  the  earnest,  expressed 
wish  of  Mrs.  Wilson  for  the  passing  of  the  law  for  the 
betterment  of  conditions  in  the  slum  district  of  Wash 
ington  was  fulfilled  by  vote  of  the  Senate. 

II:  Peace 

Panama  Hymn:  Sung  by  a  chorus  at  the  Panama 
Festival  for  the  benefit  of  the  New  York  Association  for 
the  Blind,  New  York  City,  March  25,  1913,  for  which 
occasion  the  hymn  was  written.  It  was  published  in  the 
North  American  Review,  April,  1913. 


NOTES  145 


Goethals :  written  for  the  National  Testimonial  to 
Colonel  George  W.  Goethals,  and  read  by  the  author  at 
Carnegie  Hall,  New  York  City,  March  4,  1914. 

A  Child  at  the  Wicket :  This  poem,  which  narrates  a 
true  experience  of  the  author  at  Ellis  Island,  refers  by 
implication  to  the  now  historic  labor  troubles  at  Law 
rence,  Mass.,  in  1912. 

Hymn  for  Equal  Suffrage:  Written  for  the  Equal 
Suffrage  Meeting  (Authors'  Night)  held  at  Cooper  Union, 
New  York  City,  in  January  1914,  and  read  by  the  author 
on  that  occasion.  The  poem  is  based  on  one  of  a  like 
nature  in  the  writer's  play  "  Mater." 

Lexington :  Written  for  the  two  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  incorporation  of  the  town  of  Lexington,  and  read 
at  Lexington,  Mass.,  June  8,  1913. 

School :  Written  for  the  centenary  celebration  of  the 
founding  of  Meriden  Academy,  and  read  by  the  author  at 
Meriden,  N.H.,  June  25,  1913. 

The  Player:  written  for  the  celebration  of  the  three 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Shakspere,  and 
read  by  Mr.  Douglas  Wood  at  the  ceremonies  beside  Shak- 
spere's  statue  in  Central  Park,  New  York  City,  April  23, 
1914. 

Prologue  and  Epilogue  to  a  Bird  Masque:  Thesewere 
written  for  the  indoor  performance  of  the  author's  Bird 
Masque  "  Sanctuary  "  in  New  York  City,  at  the  Hotel 
Astor  Ballroom  Theatre,  February  24,  1914.  On  that 
occasion  they  were  recited  by  Mrs.  Charles  Douville 
Coburn  (in  the  role  of  Fantasy),  who  has  since  made  use 
of  them  in  the  performances  of  the  Masque  by  the  Coburn 
Players  at  various  American  universities. 

The  Heart  in  the  Jar :  written  at  the  time  of  the  an 
nouncement  of  the  award,  to  Dr.  Alexis  Carrel,  of  the 
Nobel  Prize  for  Medical  Research,  and  published  in  the 
New  York  Times  Literary  Supplement,  December  8,  1912. 


146  THE    PRESENT    HOUR 


New  Poems 

Three  Dance  Motives:  Composed  for  dances  of  Isadora 
Duncan,  and  recited  by  Augustin  Duncan  at  the  Metro 
politan  Opera  House  and  the  Century  Theatre,  New  York, 
March,  1915. 

Edison:  Written  for  the  National  Testimonial  to 
Thomas  A.  Edison,  on  his  receiving  the  Civic  Forum  Medal 
for  Distinguished  Public  Service,  and  read  by  the  author 
at  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York,  May  6,  1915. 

Federation:  Read  by  the  author  before  the  National 
Institute  and  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  Boston,  Jor 
dan  Hall,  November  19,  1915. 

Charles  Klein:  Dramatist:  Read  by  the  author  at  the 
memorial  meeting  to  Charles  Klein,  Hudson  Theatre, 
December  19,  1915. 


LINCOLN  CENTENARY  ODE 


Delivered  before  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences 

at  the  Academy  of  Music,  Brooklyn,  New  York 

February,  1909 


ODE  ON  THE  CENTENARY  OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


ODE    ON    THE    CENTENARY    OF    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

I 

THEN  fell  the  season  bleak 
Of  silence  and  long  night, 
And  solemn  starshine  and  large  solitude ; 
Hardly  more  husht  the  world  when  first  the  word 
Of  God  creation  stirred, 
Far  steep t  in  wilderness.     By  the  frore  creek, 
Mute  in  the  moon,  the  hunted  stag  in  flight 
Paused,  panting  silver ;   in  her  cedarn  lair, 
Crouched  with  her  starveling  litter,  the  numb  lynx 
Winked  the  keen  hoar-frost,  quiet  as  a  sphinx ; 
On  the  lone  forest  trail 
Only  the  coyote's  wail 
Quivered,  and  ceased. 


2  LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

It  was  the  chrisom  rude 

Of  winter  and  wild  beast 

That  consecrated,  by  harsh  nature's  rite, 

A  meagre  cabin  crude, 

Builded  of  logs  and  bark, 

To  be  a  pilgrim  nation's  hallow'd  ark 

And  shrine  the  goal  aspiring  ages  seek. 

No  ceremonial 

Of  pealed  chime  was  there,  or  blared  horn, 

Such  as  hath  blazoned  births  of  lesser  kings, 

When  he  —  the  elder  brother  of  us  all, 

Lincoln  —  was  born. 

At  his  nativity 

Want  stood  as  sponsor,  stark  Obscurity 

Was  midwife,  and  all  lonely  things 

Of  nature  were  unconscious  ministers 

To  endow  his  spirit  meek 

With  their  own  melancholy.     So  when  he  — 

An  infant  king  of  commoners  — 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Lay  in  his  mother's  arms,  of  all  the  earth, 

Which  now  his  fame  wears  for  a  diadem, 

None  heeded  of  his  birth ; 

Only  a  star  burned  over  Bethlehem 

More  bright,  and,  big  with  prophecy, 

A  gust  blew  forth  from  that  far  February 

To  fill  the  organ-reeds  that  peal  his  centenary. 

II 

Who  shall  distil  in  song  those  epic  years  ? 
Only  the  Sibyl  of  Simplicity, 
Touched  by  the  light  and  dew  of  common  tears, 
Might  chant  that  homely  native  Odyssea. 

For  there  are  lives  too  large  in  simple  truth 
For  art  to  limn  or  elegy  to  gauge ; 
And  there  are  men  so  near  to  God's  own  ruth 
They  are  the  better  angels  of  their  age ; 
And  such  was  he :  beyond  the  pale  of  song 
His  grandeur  looms  in  truth,  with  awful  grace ; 


4          LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

He  lives  where  beauty's  origins  belong 
Deep  in  the  primal  raptures  of  his  race. 

Yet  may  we  strive  to  trace 

His  shadow  —  where  it  pulses  vast 

Upon  imagination,  cast 

By  the  oft-handtrimm'd  lamp  of  history  — 

In  carved  breath,  or  bronze,  that  we  may  scan 

The  imagined  child  and  man 

Whose  life  and  death  are  looms  of  our  own  destiny. 


Ill 

The  loveliness  which  is  reality 
Surrounds  us,  but  its  glamorous  romance 
We  glean  afar  from  heroes  of  old  France, 
Or  Hellas'  arms,  or  Gothic  heraldry, 
While  Roland  and  his  conquerors 
With  Sigmund  sleep  beside  our  doors, 
And  Homer's  age  awaits  us  at  our  hearth. 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

How  like  a  saga  of  the  northern  sea 
Our  own  Kentucky  hero-tale  begins  ! 

Once  on  a  time,  far  in  a  wintry  wood, 

A  lone  hut  stood ; 

There  lived  a  poor  man's  son,  that  was  to  be 

A  master  man  of  earth. 
And  so  for  us, 

Like  children  in  the  great  hall  of  his  spirit, 
The  homebred  fairy-story  spins 
Annals  whose  grace  the  after-times  inherit. 

The  uncouth  homestead  by  the  trail  of  Boone, 

The  untitled  grant,  the  needy  exodus, 

The  ox-cart  on  the  Indiana  heath, 

The  log  shack  by  the  Sangamon,  and  soon 

The  fever'd  mother  and  the  forest  death  — 

From  these  the  lonely  epic  wanders  on. 

The  longshank  boy,  with  visage  creased  by  toil 
And  laughter  of  the  soil, 


6          LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Cribbing  his  book  of  statutes  'mid  his  chore, 

Erelong  his  nooning  fellows  of  the  field 

Hail  their  scrub-orator,  or  at  sundown  — 

Slouching  his  gaunt  and  sallow  six-foot-four  — 

Their  native  Touchstone  of  the  village  store. 

Or  from  the  turf,  where  he  has  matched  his  build 

To  throw  the  county  champion  in  the  loam, 

Idly  he  saunters  home 

To  rock  some  mother's  cradle  in  the  town ; 

Or,  stretched  on  counter  calico,  with  Clay 

And  organ-sounding  Webster,  dream  the  night  away. 


But  time  begins 

Slowly  to  sift  the  substance  from  the  slag. 

And  now  along  the  county  pike's  last  lap, 

With  giant  shins 

Shut  knifewise  in  his  wabbling  rattletrap, 

The  circuit  lawyer  trots  his  tired  nag 

Toward  the  noon  tavern,  reins  up,  and  unrolls 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

His  awkward  length  of  wrinkled  bombazine, 

Clutching  his  tattered  green 

Umbrella  and  thin  carpetsack, 

And  flings  a  joke  that  makes  the  rafters  roar : 

As  if,  uplooming  from  of  yore, 

Some  quaint-accoutred  king  of  trolls, 

Out-elbowing  a  sexton's  suit  of  black 

In  Christmas  glee, 

Should  sudden  crack 

His  shrilly  jest  of  shrewd  hilarity, 

And  shake  the  clambering  urchins  from  his  back. 

IV 

How  vast  the  war  invisible 

When  public  weal  battles  with  public  will ! 

Proudly  the  stars  of  Union  hung  their  wreath 

On  the  young  nation's  lordly  architrave ; 

Yet  underneath 

Its  girding  vaults  and  groins, 

Half  the  fair  fabric  rested  on  the  loins 


8          LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

And  stooping  sinews  of  a  slave, 

That  —  raised  to  the  just  stature  of  a  man  — 

Should  rend  the  whole  asunder. 

And  now  the  million-headed  serf  began 

To  stir  in  wonder, 

And  from  the  land,  appalled  by  that  low  thunder, 

"Kansas-Nebraska!"  rang 

The  cry,  and  with  exceeding  pang 

Out  of  the  earth  blood  sprang 

And  out  of  men's  hearts,  fire.     And  that  hot  flame, 

Fed  by  the  book  that  burned  in  all  men's  homes, 

Kindled  from  horizon  to  horizon 

Anguish  and  shame 

And  aspiration,  by  its  glow 

Ruddying  the  state-house  domes 

With  monstrous  shadows  of  Dred  Scott 

And  gaunt-limbed  effigies  of  Garrison. 

Then  in  the  destined  man  matured  the  slow 
Strong  grandeur  of  that  lot 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Which  singled  him  ;   till  soon, 

Ushered  with  lordly  train, 

The  champion  Douglas  met  him  on  the  plain, 

And  the  broad  prairie  moon 

Peered  through  white  schooners  at  the  mad  bonfires 

And  multitudes  astir, 

Where  —  roped  like  wrestlers  in  a  ring  — 

The  Little  Giant  faced  the  Rails  plitter  ; 

And  serious  crowds  harked  silently, 

With  smothered  taunts  and  ires, 

While  Commonsense  grappled  with  '  Sovereignty/ 

Till  the  lank,  long-armed  wrestler  made  his  fling. 

And  still  sublime 

With  common  sympathy,  that  cool 

Sane  manf ulness  survives  :    You  cannot  fool 

All  of  the  people  all  the  time. 

No ;  by  that  power  we  misname  fate, 
'Tis  character  which  moulds  the  state. 
Statutes  are  dead  when  men's  ideals  dissent, 


10        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

And  public  will  is  more  than  precedent, 

And  manhood  more  than  constitutions  can  create. 

Higher  than  bar  and  documental  ban, 

Men's  highest  court  is  still  the  heart  of  Man. 

V 

Bold  to  his  country,  sick  with  compromise, 

Spoke  the  plain  advocate ; 

Half  slaw,  half  free,  our  Union  dies, 

But  it  shall  live!    And  done  with  sophistries, 

The  people  answered  with  tempestuous  call 

That  shook  the  revolutionary  dead, 

And  high  on  rude  rails  garlanded 

Bore  their  backwoodsman  to  the  Capitol. 

"Who  is  this  common  huckster?"   sneered  the  great, 

"  This  upstart  Solon  of  the  Sangamon  ?  " 

And  chastened  Douglas  answered :  "  He  is  one 

Who  wrestles  well  for  Truth."     But  some 

Scowled  unbelief,  and  some  smiled  bitterly ; 

And  so,  beneath  the  derrick'd  half-built  dome, 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        11 

While  dumb  artillery 

And  guards  battalioned  the  black  lonely  form, 

He  took  his  oath. 

We  are  not  enemies,  but  friends! 

Yet  scarce  the  sad  rogation  ends 

Ere  the  warped  planks  of  Union  split  in  storm 

Of  dark  secession. 

Then,  as  on  a  raft 

Flood-rended,  where  by  night  the  Ohio  sweeps 
Into  the  Mississippi,  'mid  the  roil 
Of  roaring  waters  with  eroded  soil 
From  hills  primeval,  the  strong  poleman  keeps 
Silence,  midway  the  shallows  and  the  rocks, 
To  steer  his  shipment  safe,  while  fore  and  aft 
The  scrambling  logmen  scream  at  him,  or  scold 
With  prayers  and  malisons,  or  burst  the  locks 
And  loot  the  precious  bales,  so  —  deaf  and  mute 
To  sneers  and  imprecations  both  — 
The  lone  Flatboatman  of  the  Union  poled 


12        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

His  country's  wreck  midstream,  and  resolute 
Held  still  his  goal : 

To  lash  his  ballast  to  the  sundered  half, 
And  save  the  whole. 

"  They  seek  a  sign, 

But  no  sign  shall  be  given  them,"  he  said ; 

And  reaching  Godward,  with  his  pilot's  gaff 

Probed  in   the   dark,  among   the   drowning   and   the 

dead, 

And  sunk  his  plummet  line 
Deep  in  the  people's  heart,  where  still  his  own  heart 

bled, 

And  fathomed  there  the  inundated  shore 
Swept  by  the  flood  and  storm  of  elemental  war. 


VI 

The  War !  —  Far  on  the  dim  verge  of  To-day 
Its  rack  of  livid  splendor  fades  away. 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        13 

The  bane  is  past ; 

The  awful  lightnings,  spent, 

Have  wrought  a  chastening  not  a  chastisement ; 

The  beauty  and  the  benediction  last. 

And  mustering,  in  season  due, 

From  farthest  hill 

And  hamlet  —  still 

Keeping  the  morning  last  but  one  in  May 

Proud  with  great  memories  —  one  by  one, 

Whose  young  life  sank  not  with  the  sun 

Of  Gettysburg  or  Missionary  Ridge, 

Buttons  his  coat  of  blue, 

And  from  his  whitened  hair 

Removes  the  hat  with  golden-corded  brim 

And  plants  again  old  colors  in  old  graves ; 

And  groups  of  simple  children  fair 

And  folk  of  middle  age  are  there 

To  kneel  by  him, 

And  honor,  though  they  cannot  share, 

His  pensive  privilege. 


14        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Still  in  the  living  past  we  may  recall 

The  war's  live  tribute.     Go  to  Washington 

On  New  Year's  morning  of  Emancipation, 

When  even  from  Arlington 

Beyond  the  Capitol 

The  streets  and  alleys  all 

Surge  black  with  singing  tides.     There  creep  a  few 

Sweet-visaged,  swart  and  hoary  men 

To  bask  them  in  the  sun 

That  beats  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 

Or  lounge  in  smiling  knots 

At  drowsier  spots, 

To  listen  where  one  boasts  again 

Of  ancient  bondage,  now  his  pedigree. 

Those  are  the  nation's  honored  slaves 

Knighted  of  old  by  the  great  Proclamation. 

For  them  the  empower'd  saviour  dipt  his  pen 

In  blood  of  equity, 

And  signed  away  the  curse  as  old  as  Ptolemy. 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        15 

The  War !     It  was  a  forging  blast 

From  God's  own  furnace,  welding  North 

And  South  henceforth 

To  be  one  weapon  for  His  hand, 

Till  even  that  word  which  once  inflamed  the  land 

Falls  idle  at  the  last : 

What  need  to  boast  of  union,  being  one  ? 

The  War  is  done. 

Yet  who  that,  in  complacent  day 

Of  peace,  invokes  the  right  divine 

Of  labor  to  reward  itself, 

Or  vested  power  to  hoard  its  pelf, 

Reaping  the  enviable  embrace 

Of  joy  denied  to  others, 

Remembering  that  dark  assay 

Our  country  and  our  chief  withstood, 

When  fathers  sought  their  sons  in  blood 

And  brothers  fought  with  brothers,  — 

Who  then,  before  the  memoried  face 


16        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Of  Lincoln,  but  must  pause,  and  pray 
For  love  like  his,  whose  larger  grace 
Outclimbs  the  individual  — 
Dreadful,  and  yet  more  dear  than  all  — 
The  love  that  serves  our  race. 

VII1 

"To  sleep,  perchance  to  dream  !"  —  No  player,  rapt 

In  conscious  art's  soliloquy,  might  know 

To  subtilize  the  poignant  sense  so  apt 

As  he,  almost  in  shadow  of  the  end, 

Murmured  its  latent  sadness  to  a  friend ; 

And  then  he  said  to  him :   "  Ten  nights  ago 

I  watched  alone ;   the  hour  was  very  late ; 

I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed ; 

And  in  my  dreaming,  all 

The  White  House  lay  in  deathlike  stillness  round ; 

But  soon  a  sobbing  sound, 

Subdued,  I  heard,  as  of  innumerable 

1  See  Note  at  end  of  poem. 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        17 

Mourners.     I  rose  and  went  from  room  to  room ; 

No  living  being  there  was  visible ; 

Yet  as  I  passed,  unspeakably  it  seemed 

They  sobbed  again,  subdued.     In  every  room 

Light  was,  and  all  things  were  familiar : 

But  who  were  those  once  more 

Whose  hearts  were  breaking  there  ?  What  heavy  gloom 

Wrapt  their  dumb  grieving  ?     Last,  the  Eastroom  door 

I  opened,  and  it  lay  before  me :    High 

And  cold  on  solemn  catafalque  it  lay, 

Draped  in  funereal  vestments,  and  near  by 

Mute  soldiers  guarded  it.     In  black  array, 

A  throng  of  varied  race 

Stood  weeping, 

Or  gazing  on  the  covered  face. 

Then  to  a  soldier :  '  Who  is  dead 

In  the  White  House  ? '   I  asked.     He  said : 

'The  President.' 

And  a  great  moan  that  through  the  people  went 

Waked  me  from  sleeping." 


18        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

God  !  that  a  nation  too  should  have  bad  dreams ! 

The  cities  all  are  still,  and  voiceless  all 

The  valleys  and  the  woods : 

But  what  are  these  husht  sounds  insufferable 

Of  moaning  multitudes  ? 

Through  the  Republic's  silent  house 

From  room  to  room  the  awful  Spirit  walks, 

Yet  all  things  are  familiar ;   it  seems 

No  change  has  been : 

From  Maine  to  Florida 

Still  flash  the  blue  seas ;   California 

Is  quick  with  April  green ; 

The  middle  ways  are  pied 

With  crocus  blooms  and  river  fleur-de-lis ; 

And  the  great  western  rooms  are  open  wide 

To  greet  the  northing  sun ; 

In  every  one 

Are  strewn  the  Saviour's  lilies  of  white  peace 

In  festival  of  Him  who  quenched  the  fiery  feuds. 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        19 

What,  then,  is  that  which  mocks 
The  victory  and  grace  that  were  before  ? 
Once  more,  and  now  insufferably  once  more  — 
The  moan  of  multitudes ! 

The  lofty  Spirit  knocks 

And,  opening  last  the  door 

Into  the  Capitol,  with  pensive  head, 

Stooping  his  deathless  stature  o'er  the  dead, 

Looks  there  on  his  own  image  —  tenderness, 

Pity,  on  which  sad  truth  has  set  its  seal, 

Heroic  patience,  strong  humility, 

Power,  whose  human  courage  shines  not  less 

That  humor  leavens  the  shrewd  honesty : 

Democracy's  own  brow  —  the  American  ideal. 

While  triumph  pealed  his  consummated  task, 
And  that  great  theatre 
Where  late  he  watched  the  war's  solemnity 
Was  narrowed  to  a  moment's  comedy, 


20        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

The  sudden  angel  of  the  tragic  mask 
Flashed  on  his  gaze  the  blinding  sepulchre. 

VIII 

It  was  a  dream  !  for  that  which  fell  in  death, 

Seared  by  the  assassin's  lightning,  and  there  lay 

A  spectacle  for  anguish,  was  a  wraith ; 

The  real  immortal  Lincoln  went  his  way 

Back  to  his  only  home  and  native  heath  — 

The  common  people's  common  heart.     And  they 

Who  speak  of  Lincoln  to  his  countrymen  — 

Now  while  one  vast  communion  makes  To-day 

His  temple  —  speak  to  Lincoln,  born  again 

From  that  perennial  earth 

Whereof  he  had  his  birth, 

And  estimating  him,  they  estimate 

The  source  of  all  that  made,  and  yet  shall  make  us  great. 

IX 

The  loving  and  the  wise 

May  seek  —  but  seek  in  vain  —  to  analyze 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        21 

This  man,  for  having  caught 

The  mystic  clue  of  thought, 

Sudden  they  meet  the  controverting  whim, 

And  fumbling  with  the  enchanted  key, 

Lose  it  then  utterly. 

Aesop  and  old  Isaiah  held  in  him 

Strange  sessions,  winked  at  by  Artemus  Ward, 

Till  sudden  in  their  midst  bright  Seraphim 

Stood,  summoned  by  a  sad,  primeval  Bard 

Who,  bearing  still  no  name,  has  ever  borne 

Within  his  heart  the  music  of  mankind : 

Sometime  a  lonely  singer  blind 

Beside  the  Ionian  sea ; 

Sometime,  between  two  thieves  in  scorn, 

A  face  in  Calvary. 

That  was  his  master  soul  — 

The  mystic  demi-god  of  common  man  — 

Who,  templed  in  the  steadfast  mind, 


22        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

Hid  his  shy  gold  of  genius  in  the  bran 

Of  Hoosier  speech  and  garb,  softening  the  wan 

Strong  face  of  shrewdness  with  strange  aureole. 

He  was  the  madstone  to  his  country's  ire, 
Drawing  the  rancorous  blood  of  envious  quarrel 
Alike  from  foe  and  friend ;  his  pity,  stirr'd, 
Restored  to  its  bough  the  storm-unnested  bird, 
Or  raised  the  wallow'd  pig  from  out  the  mire. 
And  he  who  sowed  in  sweat  his  boyhood's  crop, 
And  tackled  Euclid  with  a  wooden  spade, 
And  excavated  Blackstone  from  a  barrel 
To  hold  moot  trials  in  the  gloaming,  made 
By  lighted  shavings  in  a  cooper's  shop, 
He  is  the  people's  still  —  their  Railsplitter, 
Himself  a  rail,  clean-grained,  of  character 
Self-hewn  in  the  dark  glades  of  Circumstance 
From  that  deep-hearted  tree 
Democracy, 
Which,  by  our  race's  heritage, 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        23 

Reforests  age  on  age, 
Perpetual  in  strong  fecundity. 

X 

Those  are  the  rails  to  build  republics  with, 

Their  homesteads  and  their  towns.     God  give  us  more 

And  ever  more  of  such  to  build  our  own, 

Enlarging  still  in  manhood,  not  in  stone 

And  iron  merely  and  in  metal  ore : 

Not  men,  like  rails  of  polish'd  steel, 

Invoice-begotten  breeds,  that  pour 

Stillborn  from  laboring  wombs  of  stark  machines 

And  all  alike, 

With  flange  and  spike 

To  couple  and  dovetail,  and  serve  as  means 

To  cart  more  gold-dust  on  the  commonweal ; 

Not  those  :   but  such  as  breathe 

Still  of  the  trail,  the  redwood  and  the  ranch, 

The  gale-swept  mountain  and  the  prairie's  sheen, 

And  cities  where  the  stars  can  still  look  in 


24        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

And  leave  their  benediction  :   common  men, 
Kindled  by  nature's  awe  to  contemplation, 
And  by  her  goads  to  courage ;   not  too  vain 
Of  self,  to  show  the  clean  knots  in  their  grain, 
Blazed  from  the  same  great  bole  that  grew  Abe  Lin 
coln's  branch : 
Such  be  the  men  of  whom  we  build  our  nation ! 

XI 

But  he  is  more  than  ours,  as  we  are  more 

Than  yet  the  world  dares  dream.     His  stature  grows 

With  that  illimitable  state 

Whose  sovereignty  ordains  no  tribute  shore 

And  borderland  of  hate, 

But  grounds  its  justice  in  the  joy  it  sows. 

His  spirit  is  still  a  power  to  emancipate 

Bondage  —  more  base,  being  more  insidious, 

Than  serfdom  —  that  cries  out  in  the  midst  of  us 

For  virtue,  born  of  opportunity, 

And  manhood,  weighed  in  honest  human  worth, 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        25 

And  freedom,  based  in  labor.     He  stands  forth 
'Mongst  nations  old  —  a  new-world  Abraham, 
The  patriarch  of  peoples  still  to  be, 
Blending  all  visions  of  the  promised  land 
In  one  Apocalypse. 

His  voice  is  heard  — 

Thrilling  the  moulder'd  lintels  of  the  past  — 
In  Asia ;   old  Thibet  is  stirred 
With  warm  imaginings ; 
Ancestral  China,  'mid  her  mysteries, 
Unmasks,  and  flings 

Her  veils  wide  to  the  Occident ;   the  wand 
Of  hope  awakes  prone  Hierapolis ; 
Even  by  the  straits  of  old  that  lo  swam, 
The  immemorial  Sultan,  sceptreless, 
Stands  awed ;   and,  heartened  by  that  bold  success, 
Pale  Russia  rises  from  her  holocaust. 

And  still  the  emancipating  influence, 

The  secret  power,  the  increasing  truth,  are  his, 


26        LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE 

For  they  are  ours  :   ours  by  the  potencies 
Poured  in  our  nation  from  the  founts  of  time, 
Blending  in  us  the  mystic  seeds  of  men, 
To  sow  them  forth  again 
For  harvests  more  sublime 
Throughout  the  world. 

XII 

Leave,  then,  that  customed  grief 

Which  honorably  mourns  its  martyred  dead, 

And  newly  hail  instead 

The  birth  of  him,  our  hardy  shepherd  chief, 

Who  by  green  paths  of  old  democracy 

Leads  still  his  tribes  to  uplands  of  glad  peace. 

As  long  as  —  out  of  blood  and  passion  blind  — 
Springs  the  pure  justice  of  the  reasoning  mind, 
And  justice,  bending,  scorns  not  to  obey 
Pity,  that  once  in  a  poor  manger  lay, 
As  long  as,  thrall'd  by  time's  imperious  will, 


LINCOLN    CENTENARY    ODE        27 

Brother  hath  bitter  need  of  brother,  still 

His  presence  shall  not  cease 

To  lift  the  ages  toward  his  human  excellence, 

And  races  yet  to  be 

Shall  in  a  rude  hut  do  him  reverence 

And  solemnize  a  simple  man's  nativity. 


NOTE 

The  dream  of  Lincoln,  recounted  in  this  poem,  takes  sig 
nificance  from  its  authenticity.  Shortly  before  his  death, 
Lincoln  actually  had  this  dream,  and  described  it  to  a 
friend  in  words  which  the  writer  has  closely  followed  in 
Part  VII  of  this  poem.  The  passage,  To  sleep,  perchance 
to  dream,  Lincoln  himself  quoted  in  this  connection.  Cf. 
Norman  Hapgood's  "  Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the 
People,"  pages  405-406.  It  is  perhaps  worthy  of  mention 
that  the  words  of  Lincoln,  italicized  in  the  Ode,  are  also 
authentic,  being  for  the  most  part  verbatim  his  own.  The 
book,  referred  to  in  the  second  stanza  of  Part  IV,  is  of 
course  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 


29 


URIEL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO 

THE  GRACIOUS  LIFE 
AND  QUICKENING  MEMORY 

OF  MY  BROTHER 

WILLIAM  PAYSON  MACKAYE 

POET    ACTOR    ARTIST 

1868—1889, 

"  He  <was  a  rverray  par/it  gentil  knight. ' ' 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

FOR  this  volume  the  author  has  selected,  from  poems 
written  chiefly  during  the  last  two  years,  such  only  as  are 
commemorative  in  their  nature.  Since  most  of  these  are 
concerned  with  persons  or  events  of  public  interest,  the 
following  brief  references  to  some  of  their  special  occa 
sions  are  placed  here  in  lieu  of  footnotes. 

Uriel:  William  Vaughn  Moody,  poet  and  dramatist, 
died  October  17,  1910.  This  poem  was  written  about  a 
year  later.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  told  a  friend  about 
a  new  drama,  on  the  theme  of  Saint  Paul,  the  outlines  of 
which  had  come  to  him  splendidly  as  a  vision.  To  this 
the  sixth  stanza  of  Uriel  refers  symbolically. 

The  Sibyl:  In  1912  was  published  The  Art  of  the  The 
atre,  by  Edward  Gordon  Craig.  The  volume  is  significant 
of  a  new  era  in  the  art  involved. 

The  Return  of  Ellen  Terry  :  Read  by  the  author  in  the 
Hudson  Theatre,  New  York,  November  3,  1910,  upon 
the  return  of  Miss  Terry  to  America,  for  her  series  of  In 
terpretive  Readings  u  The  Heroines  of  Shakespeare." 

Peary  at  the  Pole :  Read  by  the  author  in  the  Metro 
politan  Opera  House,  New  York,  February  8,  1910,  at 
the  National  Testimonial  to  Robert  E.  Peary,  on  his 
return  from  the  North  Pole. 


viii  PREFATORY    NOTE 

To  the  Fire-Bringer :  On  the  death  of  the  author  of 
The  Fire-Bringer,  the  body  of  the  poet  was  cremated, 
October,  1910.  These  verses  were  written  at  the  time. 

The  Trees  of  Harvard  :  Stanzas  read  at  the  Dedication 
(on  Commencement  Day,  1912)  of  a  red-oak  sapling, 
chosen  by  the  Harvard  Class  of  Eighteen  Ninety-Seven 
from  among  those  then  planted  to  supersede  the  dead 
elms  in  the  College  Yard,  at  Cambridge. 

Invocation :  Written  for  a  Symposium  of  tributes  by 
American  poets  to  the  memory  of  Robert  Browning,  gath 
ered  by  Mr.  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  and  published 
in  the  Boston  Transcript,  May  4,  1912. 

The  Bard  of  Bouillabaisse :  Stanzas  written  for  the 
Centenary  of  the  birth  of  Thackeray.  Read  in  the  Sixty- 
Ninth  Regiment  Armory,  New  York,  January  30,  1912, 
by  Mr.  Ben  Greet,  at  the  Centenary  Festival  held  by  the 
Southern  Industrial  Educational  Society,  at  which  bouilla 
baisse  —  the  dish  celebrated  by  Thackeray  in  his  ballad 
—  was  served  to  the  public. 

The  Candle  in  the  Choir :  Read  by  the  author  in  the 
Congregational  meeting-house  at  Old  Rockingham,  Ver 
mont,  August  4,  1912,  on  the  occasion  of  the  Annual 
Pilgrimage.  The  incident  narrated  is  historic. 

In  the  Bohemian  Redwoods  :  Written  at  San  Rio,  Cal 
ifornia,  in  the  Redwood  Grove  of  the  Bohemian  Club  of 
San  Francisco,  on  the  festival  of  the  Thirty-Third  Mid- 


PREFATORY    NOTE  ix 

summer  High  Jinks  and  the  performance  of  the  Grove 
Play,  August  6,  1910. 

Browning  to  Ben  Ezra :  Read  by  the  author  before  the 
Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  at  the  Robert 
Browning  Centennial  Meeting,  May  7,  1912. 

Ninety-Seven :  Read  by  the  author  at  the  Decennial 
Celebration  of  the  Harvard  Class  of  Eighteen  Ninety- 
Seven,  at  the  Hotel  Vendome,  Boston,  June  24,  1907. 

To  the  Editors  of  the  North  American  Review,  The 
Mask  (Florence,  Italy),  the  Century  Magazine,  the  Boston 
Transcript,  The  Outlook,  Scribner's  Magazine,  The  Church 
man,  the  Poetry  Review  (London),  the  Harvard  Gradu 
ates'  Magazine,  the  writer  makes  his  acknowledgments  in 
reprinting  poems  which  have  appeared  in  those  journals. 

CORNISH,   NEW  HAMPSHIRE 
October,  1912. 


CONTENTS 

URIEL:  To  William  Vaughn  Moody  .  .  I 

THE  SIBYL  :   To  Edward  Gordon  Craig  .  .    .     14 

THE  RETURN  OF  ELLEN  TERRY       .  .  .  18 

PEARY  AT  THE  POLE        .          .;        .  .  .  19 

To  THE  FIRE-BRINGER:   William  Vaughn  Moody  23 

THE  TREES  OF  HARVARD         .          .  •  '.  25 

INVOCATION:   Robert  Browning         .  .28 

THE  BARD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE  :  Thackeray  .  30 

THE  AUTOMOBILE    .          .         •.-.       .  ,  . .  33 

THE   CANDLE  IN  THE   CHOIR  .          ,  .  .  34 

IN  THE  BOHEMIAN  REDWOODS        -  y  .  ,  40 

BROWNING  TO  BEN  EZRA        ,         ,.  >  •  41 

NINETY-SEVEN:   A  Decennial  Greeting  .  t  55 


URIEL 

STANZAS    TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 
WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

I 

Uriel,  you  that  in  the  ageless  sun 
Sit  in  the  awful  silences  of  light, 
Singing  of  vision  hid  from  human  sight, — 
Prometheus,  beautiful  rebellious  one ! 
And  you,  Deucalion, 

For  whose  blind  seed  was  brought  the  illuming  spark, 
Are  you  not  gathered,  now  his  day  is  done, 
Beside  the  brink  of  that  relentless  dark  — 
The  dark  where  your  dear  singer's  ghost  is  gone  ? 

ii 

Imagined  beings,  who  majestic  blend 

Your  forms  with  beauty !  —  questing,  unconfined, 

The  mind  conceived  you,  though  the  quenched  mind 

Goes  down  in  dark  where  you  in  dawn  ascend. 

Our  songs  can  but  suspend 

The  ultimate  silence :  yet  could  song  aspire 

The  realms  of  mortal  music  to  extend 

And  wake  a  Sibyl's  voice  or  Seraph's  lyre  — 

How  should  it  tell  the  dearness  of  a  friend  ? 


URIEL 


in 

The  simplest  is  the  inexpressible; 

The  heart  of  music  still  evades  the  Muse, 

And  arts  of  men  the  heart  of  man  suffuse, 

And  saddest  things  are  made  of  silence  still. 

In  vain  the  senses  thrill 

To  give  our  sorrows  glorious  relief 

In  pyre  of  verse  and  pageants  volatile, 

And  I,  in  vain,  to  speak  for  him  my  grief 

Whose  spirit  of  fire  invokes  my  waiting  will. 

IV 

To  him  the  best  of  friendship  needs  must  be 
Uttered  no  more ;  yet  was  he  so  endowed 
That  Poetry  because  of  him  is  proud 
And  he  more  noble  for  his  poetry, 
Wherefore  infallibly 

I  obey  the  strong  compulsion  which  this  verse 
Lays  on  my  lips  with  strange  austerity  — 
Now  that  his  voice  is  silent  —  to  rehearse 
For  my  own  heart  how  he  was  dear  to  me. 


Not  by  your  gradual  sands,  elusive  Time, 
We  measure  your  gray  sea,  that  never  rests  : 
The  bleeding  hour-glasses  In  our  breasts 


URIEL 


Mete  with  quick  pangs  the  ebbing  of  our  prime, 

And  drip  —  like  sudden  rime 

In  March,  that  melts  to  runnels  from  a  pane 

The  south  breathes  on  —  oblivion  of  sublime 

Crystallizations,  and  the  ruthless  wane 

Of  glittering  stars,  that  scarce  had  range  to  climb. 

VI 

Darkling  those  constellations  of  his  soul 

Glimmered,  while  racks  of  stellar  lightnings  shot 

The  white,  creative  meteors  of  thought 

Through  that  last  night,  where  —  clad  in  cloudy  stole  — 

Beside  his  ebbing  shoal 

Of  lifeblood,  stood  Saint  Paul,  blazing  a  theme 

Of  living  drama  from  a  fiery  scroll 

Across  his  stretched  vision  as  in  dream  — 

When  Death,  with  blind  dark,  blotted  out  the  whole. 

VII 

And  yet  not  all :  though  darkly  alien 

Those  uncompleted  worlds  of  work  to  be 

Are  waned ;  still,  touched  by  them,  the  memory 

Gives  afterglow ;  and  now  that  comes  again 

The  mellow  season  when 

Our  eyes  last  met,  his  kindling  currents  run 

Quickening  within  me  gladness  and  new  ken 


URIEL 


Of  life,  that  I  have  shared  his  prime  with  one 
Who  wrought  large-minded  for  the  love  of  men. 

VIII 

But  not  alone  to  share  that  large  estate 

Of  work  and  interchange  of  communings  — 

The  little  human  paths  to  heavenly  things 

Were  also  ours:  the  casual,  intimate 

Vistas,  which  consecrate  — 

With  laughter  and  quick  tears  —  the  dusty  noon 

Of  days,  and  by  moist  beams  irradiate 

Our  plodding  minds  with  courage,  and  attune 

The  fellowship  that  bites  its  thumb  at  fate. 

IX 

Where  art  thou  now,  mine  host  Guffanti  ?  —  where 

The  iridescence  of  thy  motley  troop  ! 

Ah,  where  the  merry,  animated  group 

That  snuggled  elbows  for  an  extra  chair, 

When  space  was  none  to  spare, 

To  pour  the  votive  Chianti,  for  a  toast 

To  dramas  dark  and  lyrics  debonair, 

The  while,  to  Bella  Napoli,  mine  host 

Exhaled  his  Parmazan,  Parnassan  air ! 

x 

Thy  Parmazan,  immortal  laird  of  ease, 
Can  never  mold,  thy  caviare  is  blest, 


URIEL 


While  still  our  glowing  Uriel  greets  the  rest 

Around  thy  royal  board  of  memories, 

Where  sit,  the  salt  of  these, 

He  of  the  laughter  of  a  Hundred  Lights, 

Blithe  Eldorado  of  high  poesies, 

And  he  —  of  enigmatic,  gentle  knights 

The  kindly  keen  —  who  sings  of  Calverfy's. 

XI 

Because  he  never  wore  his  sentient  heart 
For  crows  and  jays  to  peck,  ofttimes  to  such 
He  seemed  a  silent  fellow,  who  o'ermuch 
Held  from  the  general  gossip-ground  apart, 
Or  tersely  spoke,  and  tart : 

How  should  they  guess  what  eagle  tore,  within, 
His  quick  of  sympathy  for  humblest  smart 
Of  human  wretchedness,  or  probed  his  spleen 
Of  scorn  against  the  hypocritic  mart ! 

XII 

Sometimes  insufferable  seemed  to  come 

That  wrath  of  sympathy  :   One  windy  night, 

We  watched  through  squalid  panes,  forlornly  white, 

Amid  immense  machines'  incessant  hum  — 

Frail  figures,  gaunt  and  dumb, 

Of  overlabored  girls  and  children,  bowed 


URIEL 


Above  their  slavish  toil :  "  O  God  !  —  A  bomb, 
A  bomb  !  "  he  cried,  u  and  with  one  fiery  cloud 
Expunge  the  horrible  Caesars  of  this  slum !  " 

XIII 

Another  night  dreams  on  the  Cornish  hills  : 

Trembling  within  the  low  moon's  pallid  fires, 

The  tall  corn-tassels  lift  their  fragrant  spires ; 

From  filmy  spheres,  a  liquid  starlight  fills  — 

Like  dew  of  daffodils  — 

The  fragile  dark,  where  multitudinous 

The  rhythmic,  intermittent  silence  thrills, 

Like  song,  the  valleys.  — "  Hark  ! "  he  murmurs,  "  Thus 

May  bards  from  crickets  learn  their  canticles !  " 

XIV 

Now  Morning,  not  less  lavish  of  her  sweets, 

Leads  us  along  the  woodpaths  —  in  whose  hush 

The  quivering  alchemy  of  the  pure  thrush 

Cools  from  above  the  balsam-dripping  heats  — 

To  find,  in  green  retreats, 

'Mid  men  of  clay,  the  great,  quick-hearted  man 

Whose  subtle  art  our  human  age  secretes, 

Or  him  whose  brush,  tinct  with  cerulean, 

Blooms  with  soft  castle-towers  and  cloud-capped  fleets. 


URIEL 


xv 

Still  to  the  sorcery  of  August  skies 
In  frilled  crimson  flaunt  the  hollyhocks, 
Where,  lithely  poised  along  the  garden  walks, 
His  little  maid  enamoured  blithe  outvies 
The  dipping  butterflies 

In  motion — ah,  in  grace  how  grown  the  while, 
Since  he  was  wont  to  render  to  her  eyes 
His  knightly  court,  or  touch  with  flitting  smile 
Her  father's  heart  by  his  true  flatteries ! 

XVI 

But  summer's  golden  pastures  boast  no  trail 

So  splendid  as  our  fretted  snowshoes  blaze 

Where,  sharp  across  the  amethystine  ways, 

Iron  Ascutney  looms  in  azure  mail, 

And,  like  a  frozen  grail, 

The  frore  sun  sets,  intolerably  fair ; 

Mute,  in  our  homebound  snow-tracks,  we  exhale 

The  silvery  cold,  and  soon  —  where  bright  logs  flare 

Talk  the  long  indoor  hours,  till  embers  fail. 

XVII 

Ah,  with  the  smoke  what  smouldering  desires 
Waft  to  the  starlight  up  the  swirling  flue !  — 
Thoughts  that  may  never,  as  the  swallows  do, 


URIEL 


Nest  circling  homeward  to  their  native  fires! 
Ardors  the  soul  suspires 

The  extinct  stars  drink  with  the  dreamer's  breath 
The  morning-song  of  Eden's  early  choirs 
Grows  dim  with  Adam ;  close  at  the  ear  of  death 
Relentless  angels  tune  our  earthly  lyres ! 

XVIII 

Let  it  be  so :    More  sweet  it  is  to  be 

A  listener  of  love's  ephemeral  song, 

And  live  with  beauty  though  it  be  not  long, 

And  die  enamoured  of  eternity, 

Though  in  the  apogee 

Of  time  there  sit  no  individual 

Godhead  of  life,  than  to  reject  the  plea 

Of  passionate  beauty  :  loveliness  is  all, 

And  love  is  more  divine  than  memory ; 

XIX 

And  love  of  beauty  is  the  abiding  part 

Of  friendship  :  by  its  hallowed  beams  we  char 

Away  all  dead  and  gross  familiar 

Disguise,  and  lay  revealed  truth's  living  heart  — 

The  spirit's  counterpart, 

Which  was  in  him  a  flaming  Uriel 

Obscured  by  chaining  flesh,  but  freed  by  art 


URIEL 


And  by  the  handclasp  that  his  friends  knew  well, 
To  make  from  time  the  imprisoned  splendors  start. 

xx 

The  splendors  start  again  from  common  things 

At  thought  of  quiet  hours  of  fellowship, 

When  his  shy  fancy,  like  an  elfin  ship, 

On  foam  of  pipe-smoke  spread  elusive  wings, 

While  subdued  carollings 

Of  viewless  fervors  followed  in  her  wake, 

Till,  with  swift  tack  and  rhythmic  sweep  of  strings, 

She  flew  before  his  darkening  thought,  and  strake 

On  reefs  that  rolled  with  solemn  thunderings. 

XXI 

The  simple  and  the  mighty  themes,  that  keep 

Friendship  robust  and  taut  the  mental  tether, 

Of  these  we  talked  in  casual  ways  together, 

Delighting  in  the  shallow  and  the  deep : 

Nature,  quick  or  asleep, 

And  poetry,  the  fool's  anathema, 

Plays,  and  the  magic  house  where  passions  weep 

Or  laugh  at  their  own  image,  America 

Our  gallant  country,  and  her  captainship. 

XXII 

But  special-privileged  investitures 

Of  beauty  liked  him  not.    To  him  the  fact 


io  URIEL 


Was  by  its  passion  only  made  compact 

Of  beauty ;  as,  amid  the  Gloucester  moors, 

The  loveliness,  which  lures 

The  artist's  eye,  for  him  was  nature's  prism 

To  illume  his  love  of  country :  art  which  endures 

At  once  is  poetry  and  patriotism, 

In  spite  of  jingoists  and  epicures. 

XXIII 

So,  since  his  soul  contemned  thoughts  which  suborn 

Glory  from  theft,  where  he  stood,  unafraid, 

"  Before  the  solemn  bronze  Saint-Gaudens  made," 

It  was  his  consecration  to  be  torn 

Between  swift  grief  and  scorn 

For  the  island  pillage  of  our  Myrmidons, 

And  there  alone,  alone  of  the  high  born, 

He  spoke,  as  the  great  sculptor  spoke  in  bronze, 

From  love,  whose  worth  can  never  be  outworn. 

XXIV 

Long  may  we  heed  his  voice,  though  he  be  mute 

As  the  wan  stars  to  instigate  us  more! 

Long  shall  we  need  his  voice,  in  the  gross  war 

Of  civic  pillagers  whose  hands  pollute 

Our  country,  and  confute 

The  oaths  of  freedom !   Long  his  passionate  art 


URIEL  ii 


Let  serve  the  people's  temple,  to  transmute 
The  impotence  of  artists,  and  impart 
Strength  to  the  fair,  joy  to  the  resolute  ! 

XXV 

The  joy  of  that  large  faith  American 

In  the  high  will  which  turns  the  human  tide 

He  blazed  across  the  sun-crowned  Great  Divide 

To  make  in  art  a  new  meridian, 

Stretching  the  puny  span 

Of  our  pent  theatre's  roof,  to  arch  a  flood 

Of  mightier  passion  cosmopolitan 

And  build,  in  nobler  urgings  of  our  blood, 

The  excellent  democracy  of  man. 

XXVI 

Nor  less  he  probed  the  covert  cosmical 
Yearnings  which  glorify  the  spirit's  sleep, 
Where  dumb  Michaelis,  'mid  his  grazing  sheep, 
Stared  on  the  awful  Presence  Spiritual, 
And  heard  the  mystic  call 
Of  the  clear  Christ  across  the  desert  waste 
Lifting  from  life  and  death  the  numbing  pall, 
Subtly  for  all  the  anguished  and  disgraced 
Cleansing  the  mind  with  breath  medicinal. 


iz  URIEL 


XXVII 

These  were  the  virile  omens  of  his  prime 

(Unmellowed  still,  he  deemed  them,  but  enough 

To  give  his  ardor  tang  for  lordlier  stuff), 

But  these,  when  from  the  clear  noon  of  his  clime 

He  sank  —  to  solemn  chime 

Of  stars  —  in  twilight  down,  the  petty  grigs 

That  pipe  around  the  marshes  of  the  mime, 

Parched  niggards  of  negation,  rasped  with  jigs 

Of  glee  —  to  perish  in  the  frost  of  time. 

XXVIII 

To  her  who,  'mid  his  starry  litany, 
Muffled  their  niggling  jargon  from  his  ears 
For  quiet  music  of  familiar  spheres, 
Soothing  the  dark  inevitability 
With  springs  of  courage,  be 
Her  own  strong  soul  her  sentinel :  the  flame 
That  leaps  in  praise  dies  in  my  monody. 
Beauty  with  service  hallows  her  own  fame : 
A  living  greatness  asks  no  elegy. — 

XXIX 

Uriel,  you  of  light  and  vision  guard ! 

Uriel,  you  who  with  his  fiery  being 

Are  blended  in  my  vision's  far  foreseeing, 


URIEL  13 


That  by  one  name  I  hail  you  —  friend  and  bard! 

Our  battling  age  is  starred 

With  portents  of  your  presence,  till  the  years, 

Urged  by  your  voice,  besiege  time's  evil-scarred 

Ruin  with  sounds  of  singing  pioneers, 

Whose  onward  wills,  like  wings  that  slip  the  shard, 

XXX 

Sweep  to  the  future!   What  the  mind  adores 

The  will  of  man  shall  conquer:  what  his  fate 

Denies,  his  courage  still  shall  consummate ! 

And  as  Imagination,  rising,  soars  — 

Scattering  her  viewless  spores 

Of  beauty  on  the  tempest  —  Uriel, 

You  gaze  with  her  where  the  blind  gloaming  roars, 

Or  murmur,  where  she  sits,  with  fervent  shell, 

Rapt  in  the  solitudes  of  fiery  shores. 


THE  SIBYL 

TO  EDWARD  GORDON  CRAIG 

UPON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS  VOLUME 

"ON  THE  ART  OF  THE  THEATRE" 

Cloudy,  vast,  the  caverned  stage 

Glows  with  twilight  —  Where  are  they: 

Ribald  love,  and  conscious  rage, 

Joyless  banter,  captious  quibble, 

Brass  and  bauble  of  Broadway  ? 

What  are  such  to  her — -the  Sibyl, 

Where  she  dreams  beside  her  solemn 

Single  column 

In  the  quiet  ?  — 

Bats  in  swoon, 

Gnats  in  riot, 

Midgets  swarming  'gainst  the  moon : 

Such  are  they 

Beneath  the  grace 

And  the  rapture  of  her  face. 

She  will  waken.   Long  she's  slumbered 
Through  the  noisy  years  unnumbered, 
Since  her  radiant  limbs  withdrew  — 


THE   SIBYL  15 


Swift,  adept, 

Divinely  calm  — 

From  the  leering  satyrs'  view 

To  the  visioned  silences 

Where  she  slept, 

Pillowed  in  her  bended  arm 

On  the  starred  Acropolis. 

She  has  wakened!   She  has  smiled 

With  a  tender,  large  delight 

At  the  spell-charms  of  her  child, 

Her  own  spirit's  acolyte. 

At  his  wand-touch  she  has  risen 

In  the  mind  of  man  —  her  prison 

And  her  temple.   Lo,  she  moves  ! 

Sensuous,  with  form  of  fable, 

Most  divinely  reasonable, 

Not  the  comets  through  the  ether, 

Not  the  planets  in  their  grooves 

Tread  a  more  harmonious  measure 

Than  she  paces,  in  her  pleasure, 

On  the  silences  beneath  her. 

For  the  silences  are  thrumming 
As  with  heart  beats  at  her  coming, 
And  the  Passions  pause  aghast 


16  THE    SIBYL 


At  the  glorious  decision 

Of  her  movements,  as  they  mark 

Wild  vivaces  of  her  vision, 

Deep  andantes  of  her  dark  j 

And  her  gestures — as  she  lifts 

Pillared  vistas  of  the  past, 

Spacious  visions  of  the  marches 

Of  To-morrow,  gracious  arches 

Through  whose  rifts 

Beauty  beckons  —  hold  no  mirror 

To  the  error 

And  the  grossness  of  the  age, 

Mimic  not 

Whims  and  gropings  of  emotion, 

Atrophies  and  tricks  of  thought, 

But  her  rapture  is  the  rage 

Of  man's  spirit  in  its  fullness 

Purged  of  accident  and  dullness; 

And  her  music,  born  of  motion, 

Recreates  the  spirit's  trance, 

Weaving  symphonies  of  sunlight, 

Waking  chorals  from  the  wan  light 

Of  the  Pleiads  in  their  dance. 

Through  her  cloudy,  caverned  stage 
Bursts  the  morning:  And  she  stands 


THE   SIBYL  17 


In  the  quiet,  by  her  solemn 

Shining  column, 

Gazing  forth,  serenely  glad, 

On  the  roaring  dazzled  lands, 

Where  the  little  children,  clad 

In  the  garments  of  her  spirit, 

On  enchanted  feet  come  streaming, 

For  she  knows  they  shall  inherit 

All  the  ages  of  her  dreaming. 

Then  the  sated  ones  and  blinded, 
And  the  timid,  callous  minded, 
Clutch  the  children's  sleeves,  and  stare, 
Crying:  "What  behold  you  there? 
There  is  nothing ! "   But  the  lover, 
And  the  young  of  soul,  his  friend, 
And  the  artist,  follow  after 
The  children  in  their  laughter, 
And  the  daring  half  discover, 
And  the  happy  comprehend. 


THE  RETURN  OF  ELLEN  TERRY 

How  shall  we  welcome  back  her  image  bright 
Who  from  our  hearts  has  never  been  away  ? 
They  never  lived  who  never  loved  to  play, 
Nor  ever  loved  who  loved  not  in  delight. 
Therefore  to  her  who,  in  Dull  Care's  despite, 
Long  since  has  taught  the  world's  sad  soul  to  pray 
To  saints  of  joy,  we  bring  an  homage  gay 
Of  hearts  made  lighter  by  her  own  pure  light. 

Juliet  of  love,  Miranda  of  the  mind, 
Katherine  of  quips,  and  beauty's  Rosalind, 
Truth's  Portia,  Beatrice  the  madcap-merry, 
All  heroines  wrought  of  the  master's  heart  — 
To  these  we  bow,  and  these  bow  down  to  Art, 
And  Art  to  Time,  and  Time  —  to  Ellen  Terry. 


PEARY   AT   THE   POLE 

i 

Divinely  curious 

Child  of  the  stars  is  man  ; 
And  the  wonder  that  beckons  us 

Is  a  child's,  since  the  world  began  : 
For  the  fire  that  keeps  us  purged  and  free 
From  the  sloth  of  the  beast  and  his  sluggardy 
Is  kindled  of  curiosity. 

ii 

Beckoned  the  polar  star  — 

And  the  world  child  wandered  forth : 
The  aurora  blazed  afar 

Onward  in  to  the  north  ; 
And  the  awful  lure,  enticing  us 
Long  ere  the  tales  of  Tacitus, 
Wrought  with  a  splendor  ruinous. 

in 

The  Arctic  ages  dashed 

Spindrift  on  wreck  and  spar, 
Till  a  Yankee  viking  lashed 

His  prow  to  the  ominous  star  ; 


20  PEARYATTHEPOLE 

And,  blent  with  breed  of  the  States,  he  manned 
His  ship  with  the  sinew  and  the  sand 
And  the  sea-glad  soul  of  Newfoundland. 

IV 

Freighted  were  cabin  and  hold 

With  pemmican,  sea-gear  and  pelt : 

Skyward  the  loud  cheers  rolled, 
Seaward  —  the  Roosevelt, 

And  northward  beyond  Manhattan  Bay 

They  sank  to  the  silences  far  away 

In  the  sunlit  night  and  the  star-strewn  day. 

v 

O  silence  is  a  thing 

More  beautiful  than  song 
When  the  paths  of  the  silent  ring 

With  the  valor  of  the  strong  : 
O  silent  the  cliffs  of  blood-bright  snow, 
The  boreal  flush,  the  emerald  floe, 
Where  they  sailed  —  the  earls  of  the  Esquimaux  ! 

VI 

Forth  from  the  glacial  coasts 

They  strode  with  their  dogs  and  furs, 

And  their  shadows  were  the  ghosts 
Of  old  adventurers; 


PEARY    AT    THE    POLE  21 

For  the  harrowed  dead  rose  numb  from  the  night 
And  followed  their  path  by  the  igloo's  light 
Through  storm  and  the  smothering  infinite. 

VII 

Silent,  and  one  by  one, 

Southward  the  forms  turned  back, 
But  one,  who  walked  alone, 

Held  still  his  starry  track, 
Till  the  vast  sun  circled  the  ocean's  sill, 
And  the  luring  star  in  the  void  stood  still, 
And  the  mind  of  man  had  wrought  his  will. 

VIII 

From  the  Arctic's  blindfold  eye, 

From  the  iris  of  the  world, 
He  tore  the  mystery 

Where  a  planet's  dream  lay  furled ; 
And  the  planet's  vision  and  his  were  one, 
For  the  doer  had  dreamed  and  the  dreamer  had  done 
What  the  wondering  world-child  had  begun. 

IX 

How  may  the  singer  reveal 

Truth  from  the  toiler  wrung  ? 
Or  how  shall  the  sinew  of  steel 

And  the  heart  of  gold  be  sung  ? 


22  PEARY   AT   THE    POLE 

Who  saith  unto  Caesar  :    He  conquered:   He  saw  ? 
Weak,  weak  is  word-tribute ;  yet  mighty  is  awe 
That  renders  its  homage,  where  truth  is  law. 

x 

To  Peary  of  the  Pole 

To  the  vigilant  and  wary 
Undeviating  soul, 

Viking  and  visionary  — 
Hail,  in  honor's  meridian  : 
Hail,  and  honor  American 
To  the  triumph  of  manhood  and  a  man  ! 


TO  THE  FIRE-BRINGER 

(WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY) 

Bringer  of  fire 
Down  from  the  star 
Quivering  far 
In  quiet  eternal : 
Bringer  of  fire !  — 
Ashes  we  are 
If  to  thy  pyre 
Out  of  our  hearts 
Ashes  we  bring. 

Vernal,  vernal, 

Divine  and  burning  — 

A  wreath  of  worlds 

And  wings  — was  thy  vision: 

Fadeless  now, 

That  fiery  wreath 

Wrought  of  thy  yearning 

We  lay  in  death 

Bright  on  thy  brow. 


24  TO    THE    FIRE -B  RINGER 

Singer  and  lover, 

Brother  and  friend, 

Ashes  can  end 

Only  the  dross  of  thee : 

Quick,  Promethean, 

Out  of  the  dirge 

And  the  dark  loss  of  thee, 

Leaps  thy  star-wrestling 

Spirit  in  paean  ! 

Fire,  fire, 

Fire  was  thy  bringing, 
An  urn  elemental 
Of  burning  song 
So  on  thy  pyre 
We  leave  it  flaming  — 
Where  Death  cannot  follow  — 
Toward  thee,  who  earnest  singing 
"  Apollo,  Apollo  !  " 


THE  TREES  OF  HARVARD 

i 

Religion  is  the  shadow  of  a  tree 

Cast  by  a  star  upon  the  soul  of  man 
Tingeing  its  substance  with  solemnity, 

For  under  mystic  boughs  the  soul  began 

Its  progress  from  the  primal  Caliban 
Toward  reason,  and  the  beauty  yet  to  be. 
Therefore  perchance  it  is 

That  in  trees  we  treasure 
Our  own  tranquillities, 

Making  them  the  measure 
Of  our  own  growth  —  our  griefs  and  ecstasies. 

ii 

Dear  stricken  elms  of  Harvard,  while  even  thus 

Now  with  your  wounds  we  bleed,  still,  still  it  seems 

Your  vanished  verdure  —  multitudinous 

With  twinkling  dryads  of  our  boyish  dreams, 
With  orioles  of  song,  and  golden  gleams 

Of  youth  —  abides,  a  quickening  part  of  us: 


26  THE    TREES    OF   HARVARD 

Abides,  as  though  it  would 

By  some  spell  enchanted 
Disperse  this  tragic  mood, 

By  your  fate  implanted, 
To  share  with  you  a  secret  brotherhood. 

in 

Your  branches  die,  but  not  the  dreams  they  bred  : 
They,  like  immortal  choirs  of  dawn,  displace 

Your  silent  ruin  with  the  singing  dead. 

Still  in  your  shadowed  walks,  with  shadowy  pace, 
The  Concord  poet  lifts  his  star-pale  face, 

The  Elmwood  statesman  holds  his  lyric  tread. 

Still  through  your  silences 
Float  the  far  Hosannas 

Of  that  undaunted  press, 

Brave  with  tattered  banners, 

Filing  from  Lexington  to  the  Wilderness. 

IV 

Yes,  dreams  abide  ;  yet  fungus  will  infect 
The  living  tissue  and  the  limb  will  fall : 

Alike  in  soaring  elm  and  intellect 

The  cankering  worm  will  bore,  and  spin  the  pall 
Of  aspiration  ;  yet  if  this  were  all 

Our  world  of  dreams  had  long  ago  been  wrecked. 


THE   TREES    OF   HARVARD  27 

It  is  not  all :  for  growth, 

Plying  deep  substitution, 
Outwears  decay  and  sloth, 

While,  with  sure  revolution, 
Youth  conquers  age,  and  life  o'erlords  them  both. 


Then  life,  give  way  for  life  !   Old  elms  forlorn, 

The  scion  oaks  supplant  you,  and  you  die  ; 
Shorn  are  your  locks  of  golden  days  —  all  shorn 

(Save  in  our  dreams)  of  glory — so,  good-bye! 

But  hail,  strong-limbed  in  young  integrity, 
Hail,  glory  of  our  Harvard  boys  unborn  ! 
Death  is  a  churlish  thing ; 

Life,  life  alone  is  royal ! 
Red  oak,  red  oak,  we  bring 

Hearts  alive,  hearts  loyal : 
The  king  is  dead  :   Long  live  our  crimson  king  ! 


INVOCATION 

ROBERT  BROWNING:   7   MAY   1912 

i 

Poet  of  the  vast  potential, 
Curious-minded,  quintessential 
Prober  of  passion,  ample-hearted 
Lover  of  lovers,  virile-arted 
Robert  Browning,  plotter  of  plays, 
Leaven  us  in  these  latter  days  ! 

Now  in  rebirth, 

Renewing  time's  festa. 
Spring  —  the  wild  quester  — 

Quickens  the  earth. 

II 

Not  mere  being,  but  becoming 
Makes  us  vital.    Stript  from  numbing 
Vestiture  of  self-complacence 
Naked  for  our  soul's  renascence, 
Robert  Browning,  riddler  of  hearts, 
Pierce  us  with  your  singing  darts  ! 


INVOCATION  29 

Sharp  through  the  sod, 

Flower-tipped  for  His  aiming^ 
Shoot  now  the  flaming 

Spear-heads  of  God. 

in 

Not  our  prayer-stool,  but  our  passion 
Makes  us  holy.    Thus  to  fashion 
Psalm  and  Credo  to  a  human 
Ritual  of  Man  and  Woman, 
Robert  Browning,  purger  of  souls, 
Heap  on  us  your  passion-coals  ! 

So  let  aspire  — 

As  now  this  young  season — - 

Spirit  and  reason 
In  flower  and  fire  ! 


THE  BARD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY    l8  JULY 


Old  guests  are  gone;  old  friends  have  faltered 

Passed  to  forgetfulness  or  fame ; 
Time's  little  inn  remains  unaltered, 

The  bill  of  fare  is  still  the  same ; 
And  still  within  his  cherished  corner 

He  keeps  his  "  old,  accustomed  place"  — 
Our  brother,  cynic,  lover,  scorner, 

Beloved  bard  of  Bouillabaisse. 

ii 

The  grizzled  face  has  grown  no  older ; 

A  hundred  years,  they  bring  no  scars, 
Pensive,  he  turns  his  shadowy  shoulder 

To  snuff  the  candles  —  of  the  stars, 
Where  generations,  eager  hearted, 

Throng  newly  round  his  storied  chair, 
And  Monsieur  Terre,  long  departed, 

Leaves  in  his  stead  —  Madame  la  Terre. 


THE    BARD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE     31 

in 

Madame  la  Terre  plays  now  the  hostess 

And  decks  his  place  for  holiday, 
Where  his  imperishable  ghost  is 

The  guest  to  whom  she  bears  her  tray. 
That  he  may  friendly  smile  upon  her, 

She  curtsies  to  the  shadowed  face  : 
What  may  she  serve  to  do  him  honor  ? 

Behold  —  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse  ! 

IV 

"  A  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes," 

(Such  is  his  ballad  recipe  :) 
"  This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is :  " 

Hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  —  such  as  we  ! 
Souls  with  the  garlic  and  the  pepper, 

A  sort  of  savory  broth  or  paste 
Of  lover,  liar,  hero,  leper  : 

He  taught  us  —  for  ourselves  the  taste  ! 


For  lo,  now,  to  his  festa  who  comes  !  — 
Where  Beatrix  shines  down  the  stair 

Through  crowded  Crawleys,  Esmonds,  Newcomes, 
While  Becky,  purring  in  her  lair, 


32     THE    BARD    OF   BOUILLABAISSE 

Sits  tangling  the  besotted  Sedley 

To  bumptious  Gumbo's  black  grimace  — 

A  mordant,  brilliant,  bubbling  medley 
To  mix  his  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse! 

VI 

His  recipe  remains  the  human : 

Hotchpotch  of  passions,  pruderies, 
Lusts,  raptures,  loves  of  man  and  woman, 

Old  vanity  of  vanities 
Redeemed  in  visions  of  the  poet 

Who  learns  from  anguish  all  his  arts : 
His  bowl,  Madame  la  Terre,  bestow  it ! 

The  bowl  is  brimming  —  with  our  hearts. 


THE   AUTOMOBILE 

A    FIRST    RIDE 1904 

Fluid  the  world  flowed  under  us  :  the  hills 
Billow  on  billow  of  umbrageous  green 
Heaved  us,  aghast,  to  fresh  horizons,  seen 

One  rapturous  instant,  blind  with  flash  of  rills 

And  silver-rising  storms  and  dewy  stills 
Of  dripping  boulders,  till  the  dim  ravine 
Drowned  us  again  in  leafage,  whose  serene 

Coverts  grew  loud  with  our  tumultuous  wills. 

Then  all  of  Nature's  old  amazement  seemed 

Sudden  to  ask  us:  "  Is  this  also  Man  ? 

This  plunging,  volant  land-amphibian 
What  Plato  mused  and  Paracelsus  dreamed  ? 

Reply  !  "    And  piercing  us  with  ancient  scan, 
The  shrill,  primeval  hawk  gazed  down  —  and  screamed. 


THE  CANDLE   IN  THE   CHOIR 


In  Rockingham  upon  the  hill 
The  meeting-house  shines  lone  and  still: 
A  bare,  star-cleaving  gable-peak, 
Broad  roofbeamed,  snow-ribbed,  stark  and  bleak, 
As  long  ago  their  needs  sufficed 
Who  came  from  cottage  fires  to  Christ, 
Sharing  with  frosty  breath 
Their  foot-stoves  and  their  faith. 

ii 

In  Rockingham  above  the  hill 
The  stars  are  few,  the  winds  are  shrill; 
And  pale  as  little  clouds,  the  prayers 
Pulse  upward  round  the  pulpit  stairs, 
Where  silent  deacons  upright  sit 
Among  the  gusty  shadows,  that  flit 

From  hands  upholding  higher 

Faint  candles  in  the  choir. 

in 

Seven  candles  make  a  shining  dim 
To  mark  the  psalm  and  find  the  hymn; 


THE    CANDLE   IN   THE    CHOIR       35 

Seven  candles  from  the  choir-rail  throw 
Their  blessing  on  the  pews  below  ; 
Seven  candles  make  a  glimmering  heaven 
Of  righteousness,  but  one  of  seven 

Shines  in  the  hand  of  her : 

Elvira  Pulsifer. 

IV 

High  on  its  place  of  holy  fire 

The  towered  pulpit  fronts  the  choir, 

From  whence  the  pastor's  hand  may  strow 

The  penfolds  of  his  flock  below, 

Or  sign,  from  under  level  brows, 

Toward  them  —  the  seven  of  his  house 

Who  sing  with  one  accord 

The  service  of  the  Lord. 


Gaunt  looms  the  shepherd  in  his  gown  : 

"  O  Lord,  Lord  God,  who  lookest  down 

Serene  from  Sinai's  dazzling  height 

On  deeps  of  everlasting  night  — 

Deeps  where  Thy  scorching  ire  hath  streamed 

Like  lava  on  the  unredeemed  — 

Be  merciful  to  her, 

Elvira  Pulsifer ! 


36       THE   CANDLE   IN   THE   CHOIR 

VI 

"  Thou  art  our  Father,  Lord,  Lord  God  ! 

And  they  who  kiss  Thy  shining  rod 

And  break  Thy  bread  and  keep  Thy  tryst  — 

They  walk  this  bitter  world  with  Christ; 

All  else  with  dire  Apollyon  dwell.  — 

O  save  her  tender  soul  from  Hell, 

And  with  Thy  Pity  stir 

Elvira  Pulsifer! 

VII 

"  Brethren,  the  thirty-second  psalm! 
And  let  your  solemn  voices  calm 
The  secret  fiend  from  his  intent, 
And  make  a  virgin  heart  repent !  "  — 
Thin  from  the  dark  the  pitch-pipe  sounds 
Its  note,  faint  stir  the  crisping  gowns, 
While  the  dim  shepherd  there 
Creaks  down  the  frosty  stair. 

VIII 

A  shrilling  sweet  of  childish  throats, 
With  sombre  bass  of  elders,  floats 
Around  him  through  the  raftered  room, 
And  elvish  from  the  outer  gloom 


THE    CANDLE   IN    THE    CHOIR       37 

Seven  candles  on  the  little  panes 
Sway  to  the  choir's  subdued  refrains, 

As  down  the  aisleway  floor 

He  seeks  the  entry  door. 

IX 

More  faintly  now,  as  if  more  far, 

He  hears  them  through  the  door  ajar, 

While  from  the  entry,  climbing  soft, 

He  flurries  to  the  choir  loft : 

Here  to  a  darkling  privacy 

He  beckons  —  so  her  glance  may  see  — 

God's  errant  worshipper : 

Elvira  Pulsifer. 


Candle  and  hymnal  in  her  hands, 
She  comes  to  where  the  shepherd  stands 
Her  shepherd  who  hath  labored  sore, 
With  venerable  neighbors  more, 
To  lead  her  spirit  to  the  fold 
Where  all  her  kinsfolk  came  of  old : 
All  them  she  loved  full  well, 
But  not  —  their  fear  of  hell. 

XI 

Anxious  they  whisper  in  the  aisle 
(The  shrilling  voices  swoon  the  while 


38       THE    CANDLE    IN   THE    CHOIR 

And  boom  like  cymbals  in  her  ears)  : 
"  Our  Lord  and  Father,  child,  He  hears 
The  cry  of  sin's  repentant  heart ; 
O  obdurate,  walk  not  apart 

With  one  who  darkens  all, 
But  come  to  Christ  His  call." 

XII 

"  Our  Lord  He  is  our  Father,  yes, 
And  He  hath  come  in  tenderness 
To  me,  in  hours  both  bright  and  dim. 
There  is  no  one  at  all  but  Him ; 
And  so  I  cannot  walk  apart 
Nor  cry  with  a  repentant  heart, 

Nor  heed  another's  call, 

For  God  is  good  to  all. 

XIII 

"  His  wrath  it  is  eternal,  child. 
Who  fear  it  not  they  are  defiled. 
They  may  not  sit  in  choir  or  pew, 
Defiant,  with  His  chosen  few. 
The  hymn  is  ended,  now  return  : 
But  nevermore  His  light  to  spurn!" 
Dark,  dark,  she  turns  about: 
Her  candle  —  he  hath  blown  out. 


THE   CANDLE   IN   THE   CHOIR       39 

XIV 

O  elvish  from  the  outer  gloom 
Six  little  flames  they  leer  and  loom, 
And  elvish  on  the  frosty  panes 
Six  candles  mock  the  choir's  refrains. 
But  one  all  dark,  by  inward  grace 
Shines  on  unseen,  and  lights  the  face 

Of  Christ  His  worshipper  : 

Elvira  Pulsifer. 


IN    THE    BOHEMIAN    REDWOODS 

Silent  above,  with  seraph  eyes 

That  peer  amid  the  fronded  spars, 

More  intimate,  more  friendly  wise, 
More  tender  glow  the  eternal  stars. 

Lyric  beneath,  with  echoing  blast 

Of  fellowship  Arcadian, 
More  cosmic-strange,  more  pagan-vast, 

More  stellar  glow  the  hearts  of  Man. 

Oracular,  aboriginal 

Beyond  our  dreams,  the  psychic  trees 
Conspire  their  awful  ritual 

Of  sempiternal  silences ; 

Till  solemn  now,  with  lunar  state, 
The  Druid  drama  slowly  dawns, 

Where  cowled  satyrs  consecrate 
A  monastery  —  of  the  fauns. 

Lit  by  dance  and  starry  scroll, 

Aloof,  familiar,  lone,  divine 
With  Delphic  laughter  of  the  soul, 

The  temples  of  To-morrow  shine  ! 


BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA 

A    CENTENARY    SOLILOQUY 

I 

A  hundred  years  !  —  Hardly  I  understand  : 

Unriddle  it,  Rabbi.  Through  the  Abbey  stones 

Hearken  —  the  hushed  and  reverent  monotones, 

The  shuffled  feet,  that  pause!   '  Here  lie  his  bones, 

Who  passed  away 

From  earth,  perhaps  to  heaven, 

Aged  seventy-seven; 

Born  on  this  self-same  day, 

The  seventh  May, 

A  century  gone.'  —  Look,  Rabbi :  In  my  hand 

I  hold  this  little  watch  they  call  their  world, 

Open  it  with  my  thumb,  where  lo  !  each  cog, 

Each  golden  wheel,  on  star-gemmed  axis  whirled, 

Pulses  with  delicate  action.  —  Pray  you,  jog 

My  laggard  mind  once  more !  —  They  state,  you  say, 

This  was  my  time-piece  :  on  this  crystal  face 

I  'd  pore,  and  through  dim  introspections  trace 

The  portent  of  the  tickings  underneath, 

The  mainspring  of  the  action.   May  be  so, 

For  you  should  know,  Ben  Ezra.  All  I  know 


42  BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA 

Is,  that  the  ticks  grew  fainter,  as  it  slipped 

Under  my  pillow.  Then  I  fell  asleep, 

And  have  been  busy  dreaming.   That  was  death, 

They  say,  —  death.  Sudden  the  quick  hair-spring  skipped 

A  turn,  trembled,  and  stopped  short.  — Much  too  deep 

For  me  !  — Somehow  I  don't  conceive  the  soul 

Like  to  a  watch  unwound.  Yet  now,  they  say, 

I  am  a  poet  who  has  passed  away, 

With  many  common  millions,  to  a  goal 

Unkenned. —  Here  's  Limbo,  then  :  and  I,  a  shade, 

Soliloquize  now,  in  this  cloistral  corner, 

Among  pale  forms  of  other  ghosts  forlorner, 

With  you,  Ben  Ezra,  whom  alive  I  made 

The  Rabbi  of  my  rhyme.  —  A  quaint  conceit ! 

Suppose  we  grant  it.   So,  then  !   Let  us  sit 

On  dust  of  kings  and  make  a  rhyme  of  it 

Together — one  dead  poet  and  one  rabbi 

Conceived  and  born  of  him.  While  you  keep  tab,  I 

Will  muse  the  elegy,  and  score  our  text : 

R.  Browning  to  Ben  Ezra,  adding  next : 

Suggested  by  the  former's  centenary, 

And  after  that — lest  precious  ears  be  vext  — 

Apologies  for  defunct  vocabulary. 

II 

The  question  I  would  stress,  then,  —  pray  allow  — 
Is  this  :  To  pass  away,  is  it  to  cease  ? 


BROWNING    TO    BEN    EZRA  43 

But  if  so,  how  to  cease  ?    I  said  just  now 
That,  since  my  pillow  muffled  this  time-piece, 
I  have  been  busy  dreaming.   Ha,  those  dreams ! 
In  what  frail  shallops,  what  austere  triremes, 
Unchartered  cruisers,  barks  adventuresome, 
I  have  put  forth  on  unimagined  seas 
And  sailed  —  with  what  courageous  companies! 
Nay,  on  no  phantom  ships  !  no  guest  needs  fear 
A  skinny-handed,  ancient  mariner 
In  me.   I  entertain  with  dice  of  doom 
No  spectral  crews.   My  fellow-voyagers  were  — 
And  are,  and  shall  be  still  —  rich-blooded  men, 
Rare-hearted  women,  lovers  of  this  life 
And  wrestlers  with  it,  reckless  of  the  strain. 
My  visionary  barks,  those  be  my  books, 
And  I,  whose  bones  consort  here  with  the  spooks, 
Am  admiral  there  of  dreamy  argosies, 
That  ply  "twixt  earth  and   heaven   their  perilous  mer 
chandise. 

Perilous,  yes ;  for  dreams  are  perilous  craft, 
When  they  be  manned  by  fierce  doubts,  fore  and  aft, 
Whose  mutinous  foreheads  scan  the  heaven  for  signs, 
And  menace  their  commander  :  '  You,  who  planned 
Our  questing  voyage,  show  us  the  land  —  your  land 
Of  God,  His  promise !  All  the  lone  sea-lines 


44  BROWNING   TO    BEN   EZRA 

Are  dim  with  setting  stars,  and  stark  with  death  ; 

Yet  you,  who  hold  the  rudder,  answer  Faith  ! 

And,  once  more,  only  Faith!  '  Thus  curse  my  crews  ! 

I  share  their  hearts  but  overmaster  them, 

And  hold  the  rudder  straight ; 

Till  now  —  a  star  above  each  plumed  stem  — 

Lo,  where  my  galleons,  guided  by  their  Muse, 

The  surging  planet  circumnavigate,  — 

Doubt  kindling  nobler  doubt,  faith  quelling  fate, 

Forms  flung  to  revolution,  creeds  to  rack, 

Old  cities  of  dead  empires  put  to  sack, 

Love  founding  lordlier  kingdoms  in  the  future's  track ! 

So,  Rabbi,  to  our  question,  if  you  please  : 

Is  sailing  thus — to  cease? 

The  ghosts  demur; 

For,  in  the  nudging  vault,  I  hear  one  say: 

4  Browning,  the  poet,  who  has  passed  away, 

This  is  his  sepulchre.' 

in 

Once  a  dawn-shaft  from  God's  quiver 
Struck  my  soul,  and  from  its  embers 
Flashed  a  star  of  song  forever. 
Then  the  dawn  passed.  —  Who  remembers  ? 


BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA  45 

Not  remember  Pippa  ?  —  Pippa  who,  at  sun-up, 
Rose  in  her  bare  attic,  while  the  east  boiled  gold ! 
With  her  rising,  see,  the  morning  roses  run  up 
Clambering  live  and  warm, concealing  the  night-mold. — 

Pippa,  she  who  sang  till  little  Asolo 
Widened  out  its  walls  —  like  arms,  that  reach  in  pity 
To  nestle  lonely  things,  that  yearn  for  love  —  till,  lo, 
Vines  of  Asolo  enwall  the  heavenly  city  ! 

Pippa  she  was  Luigi,  Ottima  was  Pippa, 

Mighty  Monsignor,  chafer,  bee  and  weevil : 

Life  redeemed  from  listlessness,  innocence  from  evil, 

Like  the  cinder-girl  that  wore  the  crystal  slipper. 

Well,  well,  Rabbi,  so 

Now,  as  long  ago, 

Even  thoughts  of  Pippa 

Lilt  another  music,  breathe  an  afterglow. 

What,  then  !  Will  they  say 

She,  that  passed  in  song,  she  too  has  passed  away  ? 

Trust  me  :  as  I  used  to  sit  and  ponder, 

Songs,  songs,  songs  she  sang  me,  winged  of  wonder, 

Flitting  sunward,  till  they  quite  forsook  — 

Like  happy  birds  from  open  pages  — 

My  black-barred  pages. 


46  BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA 

But  shyly  three  and  four,  with  slantwise  wing, 

Dartled  from  heaven  back,  and  hovering 

Around  my  head, 

Sung  my  dear  earth  instead, 

Then  nested  down,  beaks  spilling,  in  my  book, 

Splashing  its  margin  with  God's  meadow-dew.  — 

How  cage  and  heart  clapped  to ! 

When  lo,  all  lamely,  came  a  scant-winged  few 

That  fluttered,  just  outside  the  closing  covers, 

Too  late  to  slip  between,  and  lingered  nigh, 

Teasing  with  matin-tunes  the  twilit  memory. 

Listen  !  — There  pipes  one,  now  !   Hark,  while  it  hovers ! 

On  passion's  flower 
I  poised  for  an  hour, 
A  little  hour  long, 
Ere  I  passed  in  song. 

Stay!    cried  my  lover 
Forsaken :     Faded 
Are  love's  endeavor 
And  all  that  made  it ! 
Dead — dead1 

But  far  overhead 
Where  faint  stars  hung, 
And  low  o'er  the  grass 


BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA  47 

By  the  eddying  river, 

Where  poising  moon-moths  flickered  and 

swung, 

I  called  to  my  lover 
Over  and  over : 

I  poise,  I  poise,  I  poise  forever, 
Because  I  pass. 

IV 

To  poise  —  to  pass  away  ! 

Rabbi,  beyond  the  high  groins,  rose  and  gray, 

Dimmed  by  the  Minster's  adumbrated  day, 

How,  browed  in  silence,  broods  my  Centenary, 

In  silence,  bred  of  dust 

And  the  dank  charnel's  must, 

That  wraps  these  bones!  — Yes,  he  is  passed  away 

Forever  more ;  nor  London's  warping  mist, 

Nor  Italy's  keen  amethyst 

Shall  cast  his  shadow  among  men ;  and  soon 

No  lingering  friend  to  care,  nor  old  contemporary.  — 

He,  I  mean,  whom  once  they  pointed  at 

In  Rome  and  Florence  :  poet-putterer 

Among  old  pictures, 

Uncouth  utterer 

Of  obscure  strictures, 


48  BROWNING   TO    BEN   EZRA 

Styleless  stutterer 

(Quoth  his  critics, 

Itching  with  their  own  enclitics), — 

Paracelsus  !  —  how  he  sat 

In  chilblain  halls,  Del  Sarto-dippy, 

Robbia-mad,  or  Lippo  Lippi-, 

Like  some  mage  of  alchemy, 

Grinding,  in  his  cracked  brain-crucibie, 

Tortuous  rhymes  from  radiant  Titians, 

Delving  for  the  thence-deducible 

Dialogue-soliloquy : 

Not  to  mention  those  musicians  ! 

Through  the  dilettantes'  drawl 

At  the  countess'  musicale, 

What  surmise  you,  English  ogler, 

Of  visions  dreamed  by  old  Abt  Vogler, 

When  you  stare  (nor  note  his  frowning, 

Conscious  of  your  own  silk  gowning) 

And  pour  at  tea  for  Mr.  Browning? 

Dust  to  dust :  the  large,  the  little, 

Ashes  both !    Who  cares  a  tittle, 

At  the  teas  of  Goethe,  Horace, 

Who  wore  satin,  or  who  wore  lace  ? 

Ashes  all !  even  such  as  —  Wait ! 

What  of  him — even  him,  the  speaker^ 

Whose  spirit,  invoked,  comes  muffled  through  this  weaker 


BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA  49 

Organ  of  an  alien  poet, 

Pale,  yet  not  all  impassionate, 

Sounding   subconscious  chords  that   flood  and  overflow 

it,— 

Of  him,  my  spirit,  Rabbi,  —  what  of  him, 
My  poising  soul  ?    Ah,  since  I  died 
How  has  this  soul  of  mine  been  multiplied 
By  minds  made  pregnant  with  that  seraph's  fire, 
Whose  touch  conceptual  made  aspire 
Mine  own  from  all  the  ages  ! 
Wherefore  I  deem  — 
No  individual  ghost, 
Moored  on  some  drifting  coast, 
Yearning  from  out  the  dark  for  daylight  lost, 
For  youth's  wild  torch 
Wind-blown  with  joyous  rages, 
Hope's  lifted  latch  and  laughter  in  the  porch, — 
Not  even  now 

For  dear  exchange  of  love's  undying  vow 
With  her  that  was  the  Aurora  of  my  life, 
My  freed  soul  longs.    For  I,  that  lived,  grew  old 
And  died,  am  born  again  in  beings  manifold, 
By  grace  of  that  which,  once  expressed, 
Bequeathes  to  them  the  beautiful,  the  best, 
That  bloomed  of  me  ; 
Whereby  immortally 


50  BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA 

Their  passions  now  partake 

Of  mine,  of  mine  their  raptures,  their  far  wonder-quest. 

So,  in  the  spirits  I  pass  through, 
Still  I  create  my  own  anew, 
Broadened  in  scope ;  still  I  awake 
Refreshed,  in  world-awakened  eyes 
Of  all  whom  mine  with  thought  imbue; 
Still  in  my  critics  criticize  ; 
Till,  stretching  the  thralled  spirit's  cramp, 
My  art  becomes  an  Arabian  lamp 
That,  touched, —  behold  the  genie  rise  ! 
Who  bows  his  blazing  form,  and  cries  : 
'Of  all  my  Master's  wealth  —  the  true. 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  the  wise,  — 
Mortal,  what  may  his  servant  bring  ? ' 

Hist,  Rabbi !  —  What  bird 's  that  ?  —  I  smell  the  spring. 
Soft!  —  Could  it  be  my  silk-girl  carolling? 

Never  alone, 

Lover  of  joy, 

Delicate  scorner 

Of  death  and  his  dances, 

Whether  you  be 

Girl  or  boy, 


BROWNING   TO   BEN    EZRA 

Rapturous  mourner 
Of  life  and  her  fancies, 
Never  may  you,  never  alone, 
Utter  your  ecstasy, 
Make  your  moan. 

Garland  your  hair : 
Wind,  come  unwind  it ! 
Hide  away  care : 
Kind  heart,  come  find  it ! 

Winter,  you  gnome, 
Shrunken  and  shrilly, 
Shut  Love  in  her  tomb : 
Tut !  —  willy,  nilly, 
Love  through  the  loam 
Unlocks  with  a  lily  ! 

Starlight  or  stone, 
Nothing  Js  its  own  ! 


Fluent  through  all  flows  all,  as  the  Greek  saith  : 
The  drowned  stone  ripples  the  starlight,  even  as  death 
The  living  waters 

With  widening  discs  of  light.      No  sparrow  falls 
But  gray-stoled  choirs  revive  his  matinals 


52  BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA 

With  incense  fresh  of  dawn.  —  You,  Rabbi,  friend, 

Soul-fellow,  busy  with  me  to  the  end, 

Crunching  with  poet-pestles  and  rhyme-mortars 

Conundrums  for  the  mind  to  apprehend, 

Bear  witness  with  me  to  this  paradox: 

What  's  permanent  must  pass.  All  spirit-shocks, 

Numbness  and  pain  arise 

Conceiving  otherwise. 

For  Beauty  is  the  flowing  of  the  soul 

Without  impediment,  the  effect  being  joy; 

So  with  a  ripple  may  reveal  her  whole 

Eternal  ocean.   But  the  child  says :  '  See  ! 

My  earth  is  stable ;  sun  and  stars  spin  wild.' 

Not  so  the  man :  c  Our  earth  spins  dizzily 

Round  the  fixed  sun.'  The  poet  (man  and  child) 

Peers  in  the  sun,  imagining  he  sees  — 

Beyond  his  face — the  shadowy  vortices, 

Vast  suctions  and  compulsions  of  the  soul. 

'  Beyond  the  sun,'  he  sings,  'beyond  — our  goal 

Is  God ! '   Last  pries  the  seer :  c  Him  whom  so  far 

Ye  seek,  yourselves  consider  what  you  are 

And  find  Him  :  stars  aspiring  to  be, 

Life  from  itself  evolving  soul  —  sach  He! 

Time's  runner,  not  Time's  stake;  Spring's  sap,  not  sod  ; 

Man's  orbit,  not  his  planet  —  such  is  God. 


BROWNING   TO    BEN    EZRA  53 

Vouch  then,  Ben  Ezra,  through  the  texts  we  glozed 

Of  earth's  philosophies,  I  still  opposed 

The  fixed,  immutable.    To  slake  His  thirst^ 

You  said,  there  lives  our  soul's  utility  — 

His  thirst  unquenchable,  for  whom  also  she, 

My  silk-girl,  sang:    There  is  no  last  nor  first ! 

Therefore  through  all 

The  chambers  of  His  spirit,  as  I  passed 

In  changing  roles  — to  lift  the  dim  tent-flap 

(As  David)  and  behold  where  hung  huge  Saul, 

Supine, 

Gigantic,  serpentine, 

From  the  cross-beam;  or,  through  the  black  storm-gap, 

Panting  beneath  a  woman's  hair 

(As  Sebald),  to  watch  —  now  here,  now  there  — 

Blind  lightnings  stab  the  dark ;  thence  to  unfold 

Before  the  quiet  eyes  of  Cleon 

His  epos  on  its  burning  plates  of  gold; 

Else  watch,  in  Spring  of  another  eon, 

(Curled  like  the  finger  of  an  infant  faun) 

The  prying  crocus  crimson  through  the  lawn, 

Idling,  without  other  care, 

In  England,  when  my  April's  there;  — 

Still  it  was  mine.,  and  /j,  in  dreams 

To  search  beyond  the  world  that  seems, 


54  BROWNING   TO   BEN    EZRA 

And  flash  before  my  fellow  men, 

Kindling  His  image  to  their  ken, 

Glimpses  of  that  God-Man,  who  wills  yet  to  become, 

Ever  for  Whom, 

In  future  as  in  past, 

There  is  nor  first  nor  last. 

VI 

But  hark !  Above  our  vault, 

Rabbi,  the  footsteps  halt; 

The  organ  rolls  the  chant  processionary. 

Relinquish  here  this  dust ; 

Accomplish  there  Time's  trust; 

Ascend  with  me  beyond  this  centenary. 

Go  forth,  for  we  are  young! 

Time's  song  is  yet  unsung; 

Let  our  glad  voices  mingle  with  God's  mass. 

You,  Rabbi,  on  my  right, 

Before  us  both  —  His  light : 

Through  men's  dear  world,  with  Pippa,  still  I  pass  ! 


NINETY-SEVEN 

A  DECENNIAL  GREETING 


After  the  years,  this  hour  :  and  after  this  —  the  years 

Fellows  of  Ninety-Seven, 

Here  's  to  the  hour  that 's  given 

Out  of  the  gladness  of  Time's  gold  arrears 

For  us,  once  more  linking  our  several  spheres, 

To  revel  and  remember.  So  let  be 

Our  toast  Reunion  in  our  lifted  glasses  ! 

Yet  of  the  wine  each  fellow  passes 

A  glory  shall  escape  his  lip 

To  wake  its  magic  counterpart 

In  the  ten-years'  vintage  of  his  heart ; 

For  Thought  is  the  master  of  revelry 

Whose  common  ale  of  fellowship 

Turns  to  Moselle  in  memory. 

And  now  one  thought  which  makes  us  what  we  are 
Masters  our  hearts  anew,  where  we  are  met 
On  the  outer  moats  of  youth, 
And  with  strange  ruth 


56  NINETY-SEVEN 

Compels  our  vision,  with  a  half-regret, 

Toward  those  dear  days  and  far 

Of  earliest  manhood,  ere,  with  souls  elate, 

We  passed  the  ivied  gate 

To  serve  our  elder  liege,  the  State, 

And  paused,  with  tremulous  faces  turned,  together, 

Back  to  the  Yard,  as  to  our  native  heather : 

Then  plunged  in  the  blind  roar  and  tide  of  fatec 

II 

Put  by  the  years  —  put  by  ! 

Let  as  it  will  the  lamp 

Of  old  Time  lour  : 

After  the  years,  this  hour! 

And  after  this,  the  years ! 

For  hark !  —  above  our  gay  night-camp, 

Out  of  our  common  sky, 

Blown  from  far  bleachers  by  the  winds  of  memory, 

Hark  now  —  the  wild,  boy  cheers 

That  set  us,  lang  syne,  tingling  by  the  ears  : 

Ninety-Seven,  Ninety-Seven,  from  near  and  far, 
Ninety-Seven,  Ninety-Seven,  to  hail  our  star  — 

Harvard,  Harvard  ! 
Ninety-Seven,  Ninety-Seven,  here  we  are ! 


NINETY-SEVEN  57 

And  once  more  the  incense  rises  by  the  rush-lined  banks 

of  Charles 

On  the  frosty  breath  of  thirty-thousand  soul, 
And  the  side-line  watchers  scramble  as  the  skein  of  torses 

snarls 

And  a  shoulder  glides  from  under  —  past  the  goal ! 
And  a  cataract  of  crimson  pours  its  wave  upon  the  turf 
And  heaves  the  sweating  victors  on  its  throng, 
Where  the  bleachers  rise  like  headlands  from  the  roar  of 

living  surf, 
And  the  breakers  of  wild  boys  burst  forth  in  song : 

For  it 's  Glory,  Glory  to  the  Crimson  ! 
And  hoarse  echoes  from  Harvard's  halls ; 
And  the  ivy  overhead  is  glowing  deeper  red 
In  the  twilight  of  her  walls. 

But  four  years  are  not  Destiny, 

And  the  ultimate  June  days  pass 
To  hail  the  flower-ensanguined  Tree 

Where  the  hosts  of  Harvard  mass, 
And  —  banked  like  iris,  sheath  on  sheath, 

A-quiver  with  all  their  curls, 
One  mighty,  rustling,  maiden  wreath  — 

Our  coronal  of  girls ! 


58  NINETY-SEVEN 

» 

Then  it 's  on  with  the  fight  of  flowers, 
And  the  battle  of  bouquets  ! 

Till  the  mangled  crush  of  the  roses  blush 
In  the  smile  of  a  maiden's  praise. 

Soft,  then,  that  glance  of  smile  and  tress 

Through  murmurous  evening  glows: 
The  lace,  the  laugh,  the  loveliness, 

The  paper-lamps  of  rose, 
Are  portions  of  a  pageantry 

Made  of  the  music's  bars  ; 
And  now  they  are  a  memory, 

A  Class-day  in  the  stars  ! 

in 

Watched  from  some  clear  and  starry  eminence, 
How  calm  in  plastic  beauty  dreams  the  world  ! 
Mile  after  mile  through  moon-lit  silences, 
In  fronded  slumber  furled, 
Murmur  the  herded  forests ;  and  there  is 
No  other  sound  or  passion,  but  a  sense 
As  if  some  stellar  truce  perpetual 
Had  healed  all  life  with  dews  of  harmony 
And  quietness ;  for  all 

The  nestling  foothills  and  the  valleys  lie  — 
Lapt  in  the  summer  moon's  unconscious  keep  — 
Like  children,  or  like  lovers,  fast  asleep. 


NINETY-SEVEN 


59 


Fond  reverie  and  illusion  !  for  beneath 
That  gloom-suspended  canopy,  the  moan 
Of  the  struck  stag  is  stifled ;  blind,  alone, 
The  wood-cat  tears  his  flank;  innumerable 
Throughout  the  dark,  seekers  of  life  and  death 
Pursue  their  aimless  ends  of  suffering 
And  brief  satiety  ;  claw,  tusk  and  wing 
Torture,  waylay,  destroy  each  other :  even 
The  beak,  whose  morning-song  ineffable 
Shall  ravish  heaven, 

Strikes  at  the  adder  with  his  own  despite, 
And  all  the  pensive  wonder  of  the  night 
Is  stung  with  venom  of  a  monstrous  hive 
Of  hearts  insatiable  —  to  survive. 

So  'neath  the  gaze  of  early  manhood's  eye 

Repose  the  civilizations  :  derrick  and  spire, 

Lighthouse  and  looming  shaft  and  armoury  — 

Islanded  grandly  in  the  evening  air  — 

Far-coiling  trains  spetting  the  gloom  with  fire, 

And  moving  barges  in  the  mist,  and  fair 

Suspended  bridges,  lifting  unaware 

Beyond  the  fog-banks  —  build  for  one  who  dreams 

Beautiful  self-delusion  :  Fabulous 

Must  be  the  master-race  of  such  a  world  ! 

Titan  and  angel  in  their  stature,  thus 

To  guide  the  lightnings  that  the  gods  have  hurled. 


60  NINETY-SEVEN 

—  God  !  That  this  only  seems 

And  is  not !   No,  for  us 

Who  fume  and  strive  beneath  the  glamour,  —  we, 

The  cannibals  of  competition,  see 

What  things  we  are  :  what  beasts  that  hunt  and  flee 

And  kill,  yet  love  the  life  we  kill,  and  breed 

The  very  progeny  whose  hearts  we  bleed. 

What  for  ?   What  need  ? 

Are  we,  then,  so  in  awe 

Of  our  own  pain,  that  we  may  not  create 

Out  of  our  need  the  thing  we  thirst  for  —  Joy  ? 

Joy  is  not  nature's  law 

But  man's ;  and  in  the  mind  of  man  resides 

For  Joy's  subservience  — 

The  angel  and  the  titan,  Commonsense ; 

So  if  there  still  abides 

In  us  the  primal  spark  American 

That  kindled  us  in  Liberty,  a  nation, 

Let  it  leap  up  and  burn  a  clearer  flame, 

As  ever  and  the  same 

It  still  has  leaped,  since  first  that  fire  began, 

At  the  cry  :  Emancipation  ! 

IV 

Fair  is  the  field  where  Reason  and  High  Will 
Captain  us,  and  their  quickening  battle-cry 


NINETY-SEVEN  61 

Is  "Justice,  and  the  New  Democracy  ! 

Justice,  whose  heart-red  shield 

Blazons  this  ultimatum  on  her  field  : 

More  Happiness 

For  all  that  live,  and  shall  live,  and  not  less. 

The  noble  fustian  of  a  former  age, 

Surviving  still, 

Has  served  its  nobler  ends  ;  turn  now  the  page ! 

All  men  are  not  born  equal  •.  let  them  be, 

And  let  them  be  born  better : 

Equal  in  hope  and  opportunity, 

Better  in  altruism  and  in  will 

To  execute  their  clearer  wisdom.   Let 

The  loins  of  the  begetter 

Be  passionate  for  his  posterity 

To  breed  a  race  more  excellent,  until 

Our  human  species  shall  be  perfected 

Beyond  the  sway  of  passion,  and  forget 

That  ever  time  was  when  it  might  be  said 

(As  men  have  said  by  San  Francisco  Bay)  : 

Nature  is  not  more  cruel  than  mankind. 

But  this  is  still  To-day, 

Our  day  —  not  of  rebellion  or  defined 

Outburst,  as  when  our  law-schooled  fathers  broke 


62  NINETY-SEVEN 

The  transatlantic  yoke, 

Or  Lincoln  the  slave's  goad 

Lifted,  and  struck  the  intolerable  load 

From  Freedom's  galled  shoulders.  Not  to  us 

That  outward  menace :  subtler  slavery  — 

The  inward  canker  of  corruption,  cant 

Of  predatorial  wealth,  insidious 

Muffling  of  the  bugle-voiced  press, 

Hazard  us  none  the  less. 

No  more  the  trumpet's  call  and  stallion's  neigh 

Incite  us  to  the  action  :  but  instead 

The  ticker's  steel  tattoo,  the  teller's  drone, 

The  trip-hammer's  iron  intermittent  clang,  the  shrill 

Steam-whistle,  the  huge-heaved  and  sullen  moan 

Of  vast  machines  in  vassalage  —  resound 

Our  call  to  carnage,  where  no  blood  is  shed, 

But  where,  from  skyward  cliffs  and  underground, 

The  living  dead  — 

Whirled  on  the  spokes  of  the  enormous  wheel 

Of  Commerce —  chant  their  strident  monotone. 


Classmen  of  Ninety-Seven  —  Classmates  still 

In  common  conscience  for  the  public  weal ! 

Come  forth,  and  let  the  quenching  of  world-sorrow 

Kindle  our  joy  !  —  Come  forth,  and  make  To-morrow 


NINETY-SEVEN  63 

A  new  Commencement  at  the  gates  of  Time 

Whence  all  our  deeds  shall  climb  ! 

America,  the  matrix  of  the  nations,  lies 

Fallow  before  us,  and  her  destinies, 

In  nascent  grandeur  furled, 

Are  ours  to  shape  in  beauty  for  our  kind. 

Our  manhood  shines  before,  but  when  that  shuts  behind, 

Still  beckons  - — the  young  manhood  of  the  world. 


FINIS 


THE   SISTINE  EVE   AND   OTHER 
POEMS 


W.  V.  M.        E.  A.  R. 

& 
R.  T. 

IN   FELLOWSHIP 


FOB  permission  to  reprint  certain  poems  in 
this  volume,  the  author  makes  his  acknowledg 
ments  to  the  editors  of  the  following  journals  : 
The  Century  Magazine,  The  Outlook,  Every 
body's  Magazine,  Collier's  Weekly,  The  Harvard 
Graduates9  Magazine. 


vii 


CONTENTS 

PART   ONE 
POEMS  CHIEFLY  OCCASIONAL 

PAGE 
TlCONDEROGA     .  *  ,  »  .  ,  .  .  3 

TENNYSON         ......        .        »  .      16 

THE  AIR  VOYAGE  UP  THE  HUDSON       ...      21 

CHORAL  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  THEATRE        .  .      23 

ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES  .  .24 

PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SAINT-GAUDENS  MASQUE  .      38 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL       .        . •  "  -  ,        •  *    •  .      42 

THE  DEATH  OF  VERESTCHAGIN      •        «        .  .46 

SHIRLEY  COMMON     ...;.•    .      -•'.-.        *        t  47 

ISAAK  WALTON  IN  MAIDEN  LANE         >        »  .      49 

THE  SISTINE  EVE     .        #        .        .       V       •  .      51 

PART   TWO 
POEMS  LYRICAL   AND  DESCRIPTIVE 

GROUP  I    e  .        » 89 

GROUP  II  .       v"      . 141 

GROUP  HI         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .155 

INDEX  TO  POEMS  IN  PART  Two  185 


ix 


PART  ONE 

POEMS   CHIEFLY  OCCASIONAL 


TICONDEROGA  l 

A    BALLAD 
I 

What  spirits  conjure  thee  from  time, 

Ticonderoga  ? 
On  thy  headland  rock 
Of  history, 

Who  are  these  that  knock 
And  summon  thee 
To  move  thine  ancient  lips  in  rhyme, 

Ticonderoga  ? 

Where  the  wind-blown  swallows 

Veer  and  vary, 

Where  the  shore  and  shallows 

Lie  visionary, 

Titans  three 

Stand  at  my  knee : 

Each  one  is  a  century. 

In  their  shadow,  silently, 

Sits  the  sibyl  Memory. 

And  her  silence  questions  me : 

1  Read  at  the  celebration  of  the  three  hundredth  anni 
versary  of    the  discovery  of  Lake  Champlain,  at  Fort 
Ticonderoga,  July  6,  1909. 
3 


TICONDEROGA 

II 

Who  glide  so  dim  upon  the  lake 

Ticonderoga  ? 
Over  their  dreaming  prow 
The  morning  star 
Blazes  their  goal;  but  now  — 
More  dusk  and  far  — 
What  old  world  dwindles  in  their  wake, 
Ticonderoga  ? 

The  fleur-de-lis,  the  fleur-de-lis  ! 

The  White  Chevalier  —  lo,  'tis  he  ! 

His  pale  canoe  along  the  tide 

The  painted  Huron  paddles  guide 

With  dumb,  subdued  elation; 

The  wild  dawn  stains  their  bodies  bare, 

The  wild  dawn  gleams  about  his  hair ; 

Steeped  in  his  soul's  adventure,  lie 

The  valleys  of  discovery  — 

The  peaks  of  expectation. 

Midway  the  lake  they  pause :  on  high 

His  arm  he  raises  solemnly. 

Above  the  lilies,  that  emboss 

His  azure  banner,  and  the  pied 

Algonquin  plumes  that  float  beside, 

He  holds  the  shining  cross. 


TICONDEROGA 

"  Champlain  !"  —  The  placid  word 

The  mute  air  hath  not  stirred. 

Touched  by  the  morning's  wing, 

The  ruddied  waters,  quickening, 

Alone  are  kindled  by  that  christening 

Quaint  splendors  mass 

Within  the  lake's  clear  glass, 

And  liquid  lilies  golden  run 

In  rose  gules  of  the  rising  sun. 

Naught  else  there  of  acclaim 

Greets  the  great  Chevalier's  name, 

Save  where  the  water-fowl's  primeval  broods 

Awake  Bulwagga's  lone  and  echoing  solitudes. 

Ill 

What  strident  horror  breaks  thy  spell, 

Ticonderoga  ? 
What  long  and  ululating  yell? 

The  Iroquois :   in  covert  glade 

They  build  their  pine-bough  palisade, 

And  weave  in  trance 

Their  sachem  dance 

With  hawk-screams  of  their  heathen  wars, 

Till  naked  on  my  shrilling  shores 

Mohawk  and  wild  Algonquin  meet 

And  taunt,  with  fleer  and  blown  conceit, 


TICONDEROGA 

Each  other's  painted  ranks: 

But,  lo  where  now  their  flanks 

Give  way  and  reel ! 

And  'mid  the  silent  sagamores, 

In  shining  cuish  and  casque  of  steel, 

Before  them  all 

Stands  bright  and  tall, 

With  gauntlet  clenched  and  helmet  vised, 

The  calm  knight-errant  of  the  Christ; 

Then,  in  sign  miraculous, 

Levels  his  arquebus 

And,  charged  with  bullets  from  his  bandoleer, 

Looses  the  bolt  of  preternatural  thunder. 

A  sachem  falls :  the  wild  men  stare  in  wonder 

And  mazed  fear; 

Once  more  his  engine  peals,  and  hurls  the  fire 

Whose  flash  shall  kindle  continents  to  ire. 

IV 

Like  sanguine  clouds  at  sunset  spread 
The  ages  slumber  round  thy  head, 

Ticonderoga  / 
Tremendous  forms 
Loom  in  their  dreams : 
Through  levin-light  of  starless  storms, 
By  giant  fords  of  chartless  streams, 
Saxon  and  Gaul 


TICONDEROGA 

Wrestle  and  rise  and  fall, 

Conquering  the  region  aboriginal. 

Hark  !     From  the  long  tides  of  Lake  George, 

What  rolling  drum-beat  rumbles  through  thy 

gorge, 
Ticonderoga  ? 

O  why  should  woman  weep  for  war  ? 
Or  man  —  why  should  it  vex  him  more  ? 
Or  why  beside  so  sweet  a  shore 

Dreadful  should  the  drum  be  ? 
O  clear  the  snorting  trumpets  neigh, 
And  blithe  the  squealing  bagpipes  play ! 
O  red  the  redcoats  on  the  bay, 

Sailing  with  Abercromby ! 

A  thousand  bateaux  floating  glide 
And  flaunt  their  banners  sheen ; 

Calm  isles  swim  by  on  the  summer  tide 
Clad  in  their  birchen  green. 

Lord  Howe  he  lies  on  a  rude  bearskin 

Beneath  the  pleasant  sky; 
Says :   Never  day  hath  fairer  been 

For  one's  dear  land  to  die. 

Says:   Tell  me  true  now,  gallant  Stark, 
What  trail  may  foil  the  Frenchmen  ? 


TICONDEROGA 

Where  should  our  redcoats  disembark 
To  rout  Montcalm  his  henchmen  ? 

A  trout-brook  once  I  fished,  Lord  Howe, 
To  fry  my  catch  in  bacon : 

Along  that  trail,  Sir,  I'll  allow 
Ticonderoga's  taken. 

O  what  so  wildly  fair  as  war ! 
From  dancing  skiff  and  dripping  oar 
Land  down  on  yonder  dreamy  shore 

And  drowsy  let  the  drum  be. 
O  proud  as  life  the  far  crag's  flush ! 
And  sweet  as  youth  —  the  hermit-thrush  ! 
O  deep  as  death  the  dark  wood's  hush, 

Marching  with  Abercromby ! 


Our  trail  grows  blind,  good  Putnam:   draw 
More  close  your  forest  rangers. 

By  yonder  balsam  [hark  !]  I  saw  — 

Who  calls  there  —  friends  or  strangers  ? 

A  mile  hence  runs  a  mill,  Lord  Howe: 
Might  be  the  Trenchers  sawing; 

Or  likely,  Sir,  ye  heard  yon  crow 
Round  Roger's  Rock  a-cawing. 


TICONDEROGA 

Qui  vive  ?     Their  muskets  flare  the  wood ; 

Franpais!     Their  wild  cheers  start: 
Lord  Howe  is  dropt  down  where  he  stood, 

A  hot  ball  through  his  heart. 

They  drive  them  back,  they  drown  their  boast 
In  blood  and  the  rushing  river, 

But  the  heart  of  Abercromby's  host  — 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  deliver ! 


Said  is  prayer  and  sung  is  psalm; 
In  the  moonlight  waits  Montcalm. 
Felled  is  tree  and  sunk  is  trench; 
On  their  ramparts  rest  the  French. 
Moon  is  waned  and  night  is  gone, 
And  the  plateau,  in  the  dawn, 
Strown  with  strange  gigantic  wrack, 
Bristles  like  a  wild  boar's  back, 
Horrid  shagg'd  with  monstrous  spines 
Of  splintered  oaks  and  tangled  pines. 
Where  last  night  the  setting  sun 
Placid  forest  looked  upon, 
In  its  place  the  sunrise  sees 
Rubble  heaps  of  writhen  trees, 
Boughs  —  that  hid  the  shy  bird's  nest  — 
Sharpened  for  a  soldier's  breast. 


10  TICONDEROGA 

Hot  soars  the  sun :   in  dove-white  swarms 
Cluster  the  dazzling  uniforms 
Along  the  earthworks ;    distant  shines 
The  vanguard  of  the  English  lines. 
Scarlet  from  the  sombre  firs 
They  start  like  sudden  tanagers, 
And  smoothly  sweep  the  open  glade 
Toward  the  abatis.     There,  waylaid, 
They  flounder  midst  the  galling  heap 
Of  tumbled  branches,  where  they  leap 
And  crawl,  as  'mid  some  huge  morass. 
Like  locusts  in  storm-beaten  grass. 
The  looming  breastworks  now  they  see 
But  still  no  foemen.     Suddenly, 
Blinding  the  noon,  a  dusk  of  smoke 
Blooms,  and  the  roaring  air  hath  broke 
In  hurricanes  of  scorching  hail, 
Through  which,  to  dying  eyes  that  quail, 
Falls  the  round  sun  —  a  fiery  grail. 

Vive  le  Roif   rings  from  the  wall 
Of  flame :    Vive  noire  General ! 

Choked  by  the  fury  and  the  fire, 
The  rended  English  ranks  suspire 
A  moment's  pause,  then  maddened  rush 
Stifling  through  the  giant  brush 
Where,  trapped  in  pits  of  jagged  spars, 


TICONDEROGA  11 

Rangers  and  yelling  regulars 
Struggle  to  shoot  and  strain  to  see 
The  blithe  and  viewless  enemy. 

Vive  le  Roi!   shrilly  the  call 
Rings  clear:    Vive  notre  General! 

Whirled  from  the  zigzag  bastion's  scarp, 
The  hellish  crossfire  weaves  its  warp. 
Thrice  they  return,  and  thrice  again: 
Image  of  God  !   and  are  these  men 
With  eyes  upturned  in  sightless  stare, 
Glazed  with  the  dead  hate  that  they  glare : 
And  one,  with  dumb  mouth,  shouts  in  death 
To  one  the  red  blood  strangleth, 
And  one,  outstretched  with  woful  brow, 
Hangs  spiked  upon  a  greenwood  bough, 
Wrought  in  a  sculptured  agony 
Like  Him  that  died  upon  a  tree. 

The  soul  of  Abercromby's  host 

Follows  Lord  Howe  —  his  shining  ghost : 

On  stormy  ridge  and  parapet 

It  rides  in  flame,  it  leads  them  yet; 

Smiling,  with  wistful  image  wan, 

A  dead  man  leads  the  dying  on. 

And  Campbell,  Laird  of  Inverawe, 

Hath  met  the  doom  his  dream  foresaw; 


TICONDEROGA 

Pierced  by  his  murdered  kinsman's  eyes, 
His  clansmen  bear  him  where  he  dies. 

Lord  Howe,  Lord  Howe,  why  shouldst  thou 

fall! 

Thy  life  it  was  the  life  of  all; 
Thy  death  ten  thousand  hath  undone0 
England  hath  sunken  with  the  sun. 
Ticonderoga's  lost  and  won  ! 


O  women,  weep  ye  yet  for  war  ? 
Bugles  and  banners,  flaunt  no  more ! 
For  some  be  sleeping  by  the  shore 

In  slumber  dark,  and  some  be 
Awake  in  fever's  roaring  gorge, 
And  some,  in  crowded  keels  that  forge 
Southward,  curse  heaven  and  Lake  George, 

Flying  with  Abercromby ! 

V 

Still  round  thy  brow  the  riven  war-clouds  range, 

Ticonderoga : 

The  conquest  marches  though  the  colors  change. 
And  now,  where  revolution's  lightnings  run, 
Beyond  the  battle-smoke,  sublime  and  wan, 
Quivers  the  patient  star  of  Washington. 
Ranger  'gainst  regular, 


TICONDEROGA  13 

Sundered  in  enmity, 
Opens  thine  ancient  scar 
Newly  — for  liberty. 
Now  with  a  rushing  noise 
Burst  freedom's  fountains 
Where  the  green-forest  boys 
March  from  their  mountains. 
Listen!     What  wheedling  fife 
Quickens  thy  smouldering  memories  to  life, 
Ticonderoga  ? 

We're  marching  for  to  take  the  fort 

With  Ethan  —  Ethan  Allen, 
That  when  with  fight  he  fills  a  quart 

He  ups  and  gulps  a  gallon. 
Double-quick  it !  faster !  —  hep  ! 

Lord  !   his  blood  is  brandy. 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 

And  hold  your  muskets  handy. 

Friends  and  fellow  soldiers  —  halt ! 

Mind  your  P's,  you  noodle ! 
What  mother's  son  will  earn  his  salt 

And  dance  to  Yankee  Doodle? 
There  stands  Ticonderoga:   state 

What  now  ye  mean  to  do  there. 
Yon's  the  fortress'  wicket-gate: 

How  many  will  march  through  there  ? 


14  TICONDEROGA 

As  many  now  as  volunteer 

Poise  your  firelocks  !  —  Right,  Sir ! 
Each  man  has  swung  his  musket  clear, 

Each  man  files  off  to  fight,  Sir. 
The  British  sentry  points  his  gun, 

And  Ethan  hears  him  click  it; 
He  fires :   the  Yankees  yell  '  Come  on  ! ' 

And  thunder  through  the  wicket. 

They  thunder  through  the  barracks  court 

And  ram  the  British  mortars.  — 
What  rag-tail  rebels  make  such  sport 

In  great  King  George's  quarters  ?  — 
King  George's  style  is  over,  Sir ! 

You  redcoats  wear  the  wrong  dress: 
Ground  arms  to  the  great  Jehovah,  Sir, 

And  the  Continental  Congress ! 

VI 

Thine  eyes  grow  dreamy  in  the  evening  haze, 

Ticonderoga. 
Where,  in  mimic  art 
Ephemeral, 

Thy  pilgrims  hold  their  part 
In  festival, 
On  what  eternal  pageants  dost  thou  gaze, 

Ticonderoga  ? 


TICONDEROGA  15 

Soldier  and  saint  and  sagamore 
Are  vanished  from  my  tranquil  shore. 
The  ripples  that  the  summer  breeze 
Awakes  —  they  are  my  reveries ; 
The  day-fly  dartles  where  below 
The  Royal  Savage  hides  her  woe, 
And  where  the  silver  lake-trout  ply 
Arnold  still  grapples  with  Sir  Guy. 
On  Mount  Defiance,  looming  proud, 
Glowers  Burgoyne  —  a  twilight  cloud, 
In  whose  spent  shower's  radiance 
Macdonough  fights  the  Confiance. 

Battles  whose  blood  is  liberty, 
Heroes  whose  dreams  are  history, 
Imagination  hath  them  wrought, 
Tempering  all  things  to  a  thought, 
Painting  the  land,  the  lake,  the  sky, 
With  pageants  of  the  dreamer's  eye.  . 

So  by  my  visionary  shore, 

Soldier  and  saint  and  sagamore 

Live  in  my  shadow  evermore: 

Where,  rapt  in  beauty,  sleeps  Champlain, 

Lulled  are  the  passion  and  the  pain; 

The  legend  and  the  race  remain. 


TENNYSON  l 

I 

SONG  keeps  no  dim  centennial 

Where  one  who  sang  lies  hushed  in  earth, 
And  Beauty  wears  not  death  nor  birth 

Though  lovers  bring  her  flower  and  pall; 

While  Life  itself,  in  endless  youth, 
Is  sown  along  sidereal  deeps, 
From  darkness,  where  the  dreamer  sleeps, 

Trembles  the  morning-star  of  Truth. 

Not  to  the  singer,  but  to  Song 

That  lights  with  viewless  finger-tips 
Her  flaming. music  at  his  lips, 

Those  immortalities  belong. 

Yet  to  the  singer,  for  the  sake 
Of  austere  service  lowly  lent 
To  make  his  mind  her  instrument, 

The  flower  and  pall  of  song  we  take. 

1  Written  to  be  read  before   the  Brooklyn  Institute, 
1909,  in  commemoration  of  the  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  birth  of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 
16 


TENNYSON  17 

II 

Among  the  mighty  island-choir 

His  'earliest  pipe'  was  faintly  heard 
When  still  the  hearts  of  time  were  stirred 

With  revolutionary  fire, 

While  lights  and  echoes  still  were  blown 
Across  the  darkening  lyric  sky 
Of  Shelley's  shrilling  ecstasy 

And  Byron's  orphic  organ-tone. 

He  watched  the  shuddering  Age,  aghast, 
Behold  the  sphinx  of  Science  grow 
A  lion  vigilant,  and  throw 

Its  shadow  o'er  the  golden  past, 

Assuming  slow  an  awful  Shape 

That  stood  impassive  at  the  feast, 
Revealing  man  a  mystic  beast  - 

The  evolution  of  an  ape. 


Still  shy  he  sought  his  shunning  Muse 
Remote  from  sceptic  clash  and  curse, 
And  mixed  the  palette  of  his  verse 

With  nature's  mellow  gleams  and  hues, 


18  TENNYSON 

And  crowned  his  rhyme  with  bloom  of  fern 
In  fiery  orchid  palaces, 
And  caught  in  crystal  chalices 

Bright  spillings  from  a  Grecian  urn; 

Till,  touched  by  human  lover's  hand, 
The  singer  rose  to  larger  thought 
And  took  the  spurs  of  Lancelot 

And  galloped  into  Fairyland. 


But  most  of  olden  fair  romance 

Is  rust  on  Reason's  shining  shield, 
And  Merlin's  hand  is  weak  to  wield 

The  wand  of  Science'  necromance. 

And  soon  the  mage  of  modern  rhyme 
Poured  all  his  alchemy  of  art 
In  newer  purpose  —  to  impart 

The  noble  doublings  of  his  time; 

And  sped  the  Mediaeval  ghost 

Of  faith,  and  hailed  the  love  of  all, 
The  lessening  individual, 

The  kingly  '  common  sense  of  most ' ; 


TENNYSON  19 

And  watched,  with  keen  prophetic  scan, 

Wild  lightnings  from  the  embattled  crew 
Of  '  navies  grappling  in  the  blue ' 

Quenched  by  'the  Parliament  of  Man.' 

Thus  on  his  centenary  page 

The  Muse  has  scrolled  his  name  with  hers : 

A  Prince  of  old  Artificers, 
Knight-errant  of  the  Newest  Age. 

The  poet  pales  in  memory  — 

Aloof  and  proud  and  book-bemused, 
His  Saxon  plainness  subtly  fused 

With  pomp  of  Norman  chivalry; 

His  ashes  in  the  Abbey  lie 

Aristocratic  in  their  place, 

But  all  that  lives  of  him  has  grace 

Of  beautiful  democracy; 

Near  mouldering  glaive  and  oriflamme 
His  cerements  rest,  but  he,  unwound 
From  death,  by  human  love  is  crowned 

With  friendship  in  memoriam; 

By  many  a  far  and  alien  beach 

He  seeks  the  holy  grail  of  song, 
Hailed  by  the  Saxon-thinking  throng 

The  laureate  of  English  speech. 


20  TENNYSON 

III 

O  Song  —  O  Grail  of  man's  desire  ! 

O  living  Splendor,  never  sped  ! 

Out  of  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
Rise,  rise  once  more  in  mystic  fire  I 

Reveal  for  us,  for  us,  reveal 

The  Singer  in  his  harness  clad, 
And  gird  him  forth  like  Galahad 

To  smite,  to  chasten  and  to  heal ; 

To  hallow  spear  and  spade  and  hod, 
To  wrestle  manhood  from  defeats, 
To  face  the  mighty  in  their  seats 

And  humble  greatness  before  God; 

To  be  the  bugle  of  his  race 

And  blazon  through 'the  age  again 
Thy  music  in  the  hearts  of  men, 

Thy  beauty  in  the  market-place. 


THE  AIR  VOYAGE  UP  THE  HUDSON1 

LIKE  nothing  earthly,  on  awful  wings, 

It  burst  on  the  staring  million, 
Like  a  dream  of  ancient  dreadful  things 

In  the  dusk  of  the  time  reptilian. 

Our  hearts  beat  quick;   we  spoke  not  aloud; 

Our  minds  our  senses  dissuaded; 
As  we  saw  the  bastions  of  bird  and  cloud 

By  the  vision  of  man  invaded. 

We  caught  our  breath,  as  we  watched  him  bound 
Where  the  air-billow  swirls  and  serries, 

And  the  shout  of  our  straining  hearts  is  drowned 
In  the  din  of  the  roaring  ferries. 

With  sliding  pinion  and  whizzing  prow  — 
His  sky-ship  the  sea  birds  scaring  — 

Like  a  thought  from  Liberty's  looming  brow, 
He  flashes  and  soars  in  his  daring. 

1  Stanzas  written  on  witnessing,  from  Battery  Park, 
the  first  flight  made  by  Wilbur  Wright  in  his  aeroplane 
from  Governor's  Island  to  Grant's  Tomb  and  back,  on 
the  morning  of  October  4,  1909,  during  the  Hudson- 
Fulton  celebrations. 

21 


22     THE   AIR   VOYAGE   UP   THE   HUDSON 

He  has  flashed ;   he  is  gone :   only  fancy  aids 
Our  eyes  where  the  haze  grows  hoarer: 

The  Ages  look  up  from  the  Palisades, 

That  looked  down  on  the  Dutch  explorer. 

But  what  of  their  dreams  —  those  gray  steel  hulks 
Deep-moored  in  the  river  below  him, 

With  the  loins  of  a  nation  girt  in  their  bulks  ? 
In  their  iron  hearts,  do  they  know  him? 

Do  their  deadly  engines  twinge  with  a  doubt, 

A  dread  of  this  thing  ethereal, 
That  hides  in  its  plumes  the  earliest  scout 

Of  the  armies  and  navies  aerial  ? 

And  what  of  their  hearts  —  that  human  throng  ? 

Do  they  hail  in  this  creature  regal 
The  harbinger  of  dirge,  or  of  song? 

A  vulture,  or  an  eagle  ? 


He  tacks;   he  returns:   the  news  is  blown 
On  the  winds  of  a  city's  wonder: 

He  comes,  in  the  braying  megaphone, 
He  comes,  on  Manhattan's  thunder; 

He  looms  once  more  by  the  cwarming  bluffs  • 

A  bird  of  marshes  gigantic  — 
And  slants  on  the  slumbering  mist,  and  luffs 

To  his  nest  by  the  booming  Atlantic. 


CHORAL  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW 
THEATRE l 

(Written  to  be  sung  to  music  from  Gounod's  Redemption.) 

AWAKE  !   awake  !   awake  ! 

Spirits  of  Aspiration ! 

And  hasten  to  renew 

Your  ministering  vows : 

For  lo  !   the  Prince  of  Faery 

Returns  within  your  walls, 

Back  from  his  ancient  bright  dominions : 

Awake  !   awake  !   awake  ! 

For  he  is  crowned  again. 

But  who  is  he,  the  Prince  of  Faery  ? 

Of  Hellas  he  was  god,  a  swan  he  was  in  Avon. 

But  who  is  he,  the  Prince  of  Faery  ? 

Of  little  children   lord,   of  men  and   angels 

master : 
Within  the  human  mind  he  rules  the  world. 

1  Sung  by  members  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Com 
pany,  at  the  ceremony  of  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone 
of  the  New  Theatre,  New  York,  December  15,  1908,  and 
also  at  the  opening  ceremonies,  November  6,  1909. 
23 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES  ' 

HARVARD  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  POEM,  1908 
I 

ONCE  more  amid  her  mountains  and  her  seas 
American,  dream-startled  Liberty 
Stares    round    her,   listening.     From    her    mystic 
limbs 

Sleep  like  a  garment  slips; 

Between  her  lips 
Bright  wonder  trembles  momentarily; 

About  her  knees 

Her  ancient  streams  and  shores,  innumerable 
With    navies    and    strange    peoples,    raise    new 

hymns 

In  her  immortal  name.     Once  more  she  lifts 
Her  head  in  proud  resistance,  beautiful 
Rebellion:   yet  not  now  with  martial  frown 

To  glare  through  scorching  rifts 
Of  cannon  smoke,  smiting  her  foemen  down, 

1  Read  in  Sanders  Theatre,  Cambridge,  June  25,  1908. 
24 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     25 

But  now,  with  gaze  upturned  in  the  deep  sky 
Whose  timeless  arc  reveals  each  mortal  blur 
Of  her  bright  image  overhanging  her, 
To  purify  herself,  for  her  least  worshipper. 

II 

Ours  is  an  age  of  mutability, 

A  threshold  radiant  yet  sinister 

Toward  strange  horizons,  where  the  eternal  hills 

Of  ancient  law  heave,  and  sink  shuddering  under, 

Bursting  in  giant  surf  against  the  base 

Of  vastier  summits,  newly  starred  with  wonder; 

And  though  that  portent  thrills 
Our  thoughts  with  dread,  or  joy,  here  is  our  place ; 
Here  we  must  look  our  common  future  in  the  face. 

Necessity  sounds  no  alarms,  and  time 
No  tocsin  for  his  patient  siege.     To-day 
No  detonation  of  deep  Sumter's  gun, 
Nor  lightning  musket-flash  of  Lexington, 

Nor  jangled  steeple-chime, 
Ushers  our  holy  war;   but  silent-shod, 

And  in  the  secret  way 

Of  human  hearts,  where  in  the  'sordid  street 
The  modern  slave  and  master  dumbly  meet 

And  in  the  other's  eyes 


26     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

Each,  unaware,  beholds  the  eyes  of  God, 

That  ever  after  burn  and  scrutinize 

The  vitals  of  his  soul ;   or  where,  defiled, 

The  starless  miner  barters  his  own  child 

For   mordant    drink    to    quench    his    questioning 

mind; 

Or  where,  behind 
The  squandered   toil  of  millions,  the  impeach'd 

man 

Puts  out  his  life,  to  shut  away  the  shame; 
Still  silent  as  the  flame 
Of  serpent  fire  through  autumn  grass, 
The  radiant  revolution  creeps, 
Impregnating  the  nation's  prone  morass 
With  seed  Promethean 
That,  kindling,  leaps 

Forth  on  the  peaks    of  life,  aspiring  whence  it 
came. 

What  is  that  seed  ?  —  that  living  fire  ? 

What  mystic  name, 

What  secret  shrine, 

Revealed,  sets  free 
That  sweet  and  awful  Potency, 
Which  wears,  'neath  blasphemy  and  ire, 
'Neath  pain  and  sin  and  hate  and  blood, 
The  hallowed  smile  of  brotherhood  ? 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     27 

A  myriad  names,  a  myriad 
Shrines  its  worshippers  have  had, 

Yet  whatsoever  god  men  call  it  by, 
Still  the  divine 

Democracy  of  man,  while  man  is,  cannot  die. 

Hearken  how  far 

The  high  persuasion 

Of  our  renascence  thunders  !     Groping,  dumb, 
Bowed  with  old  burdens  of  a  continent, 
Branded  with  immemorial  scar 
Of  sheik  and  king  and  khan  and  czar, 

They  come  —  they  come, 
Filing,  in  vast  and  orderly  invasion, 
The  planks  of  Ellis  Island.     Who  shall  tell 
What  numbers   thronged   the  fields  where  great 

Martel 

Marshalled  his  hordes,  or  old  Arminius 
O'erwhelmed  the  Roman  legions  ?  —  Gaul  and 

Hun, 

Vandal  and  Visigoth,  behold,  for  us 
To-day  the  humdrum  agent,  one  by  one, 

By  sex  and  ages, 

Chalk-marks   and   checks,   and   down   the  bright 
steel  cages 

Passes  the  hybrid  clans, 
Whose  migratory  hosts  pour  forth  —  Americans. 


28     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

III 

Presides  et  socii  collegiorum! 

Masters  and  scholars  of  the  chosen  places ! 

I  ask  of  you  —  to  whom 
Shall  those  inchoate  freemen,  dazzled  races, 
Turn  in  their  promised  land  for  leadership  ? 

Who  shall  equip 

Their  hope  with  discipline,  their  nescience 
With  light,  their  sudden  zeal  with  reverence? 

I  ask  of  you  —  to  whom 
The  amazed  Republic,  gazing  on  this  skein 

And  stuff  of  destiny, 

Pied-shot  with  human  passion,  joy  and  pain, 
Shall  look  to  engineer  the  awful  loom, 
So  that  within  the  fabric  of  the  state 
The  large  ideal  of  the  intricate 
Design  shall  blazon,  bold  and  beautiful, 
The  gracious  lineaments  of  Liberty  ? 

Flower-sprung  from  mesas  of  the  prairied  land, 
Star-strewn  along  the  hills  and  by  the  seas  — 
The  quiet-bastioned  citadels  of  peace 
And  gunless  fortresses  of  freedom  —  stand 
The  universities.     No  breastwork  heaves 
Its  brow  in  menace  near;   the  ivied  gates 
Rise  moatless ;   from  the  campus  and  the  eaves 
Perennial  youthhood  chimes;   and  all  awaits 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     29 

The  coming  conqueror.     Yet  inward  shrined, 

And  panoplied 

With  arms  more  glorious  than  glaive  of  Cid 
Or  Charlemagne,  the  quenchless  human  mind 

Sits  inexpugnable; 
While  far  around,  from  swarming  cities  and  wide 

swards, 

Murmur     the     vague,     aspiring,     passion-driven 
hordes. 

Let  us  not  vest  with  visionary  seal 
Of  sanctity  the  individual. 

Wherever  among  men 
The  brave  and  reasonable  citizen 

Thinks  for  the  common  weal 
And  speaks  his  thought,  there  the  Republic  speaks, 
Yet,  if  unanswered,  speaks  in  vain. 

For  ours  is  a  day  of  coalition:   this 

Our  people,  viewed  with  the  perspective  eye 

Of  revery,  appears  a  titan  group 

Of  powers  compositive,  vast  Dramatis 

Personse,  plying  their  immortal  tasks, 

'Neath  which  their  Atlantean  sinews  stoop, 

In  that  high  Comedy  Serene 
Wherein  the  Evolutionary  will  immasks; 
And  there,  amid  those  titan  forms  of  Man  — 


30     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

Their  torses  poised  proud 

In  athlete  ease,  their  foreheads  pensive-bow'd  - 
The  Spirits  of  the  Universities 
Enact  their  corporate  roles  American. 

Therefore  to  you,  lords  of  the  large  demesne 
Of  learning,  scholars  of  well-earned  degrees, 
To  you,  in  your  confederated  power, 
Preeminently,  the  Republic  turns 
And  charges  you,  by  your  just  love  of  her, 

To  lead,  to  pilot  and  uplift 
Her  generations,  and  administer, 

With  the  most  holy  shrift 
Of  reason  and  Time's  slow  amassed  dower, 
Her  bright  communion  to  the  multitude. 

Toward  you,   in  whose  calm  hands  her  chalice 

burns 

With  beauty  strange,  how  many  thirst-imbued 
Gaze,  yearning !     Not  alone  on  your  own  walls, 
Wherein  your  chosen  meet  —  your  shadow  falls 
Also  on  alien  thresholds,  thrown  across 
The  nation's  childhood,  by  the  increasing  glow 
Of  truth  that  flares  beyond  you.     As  you  sow, 
So  shall  the  lesser  seekers  harvest  —  dross 
Or  substance.     In  responsibility, 
You  are  the  true  inheritors  of  kings 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     31 

Whose  sceptres  now  lie  impotent,  your  halls  — 
The  sovran  courts  of  the  democracy; 

And  by  the  royalty 
Conferred  of  patient  high  imaginings, 

Your  first  prerogative  — 
And  prime  efficiency  —  is  leadership. 

IV 

Who  is  the  scholar-leader?     What  is  he 

Whose  learning  shows  the  unlearned  best  to  live  ? 

There  be,  who  —  finger  hard  on  lip  — 
Pore  lifelong,  with  laborious  glass, 
On  nature's  enigmatic  heart, 
Dissecting  shrewdly,  part  by  part, 
To  store  her  secrets  in  their  scrip, 
Heedless  of  human  love  and  art, 
Or  how  the  passionate  generations  pass. 

Others  there  are  who,  moved  no  less 

To  explore  that  mute  obscure  abysm, 
Make  of  their  probing  minds  a  prism 

Whose  many-sided  radiance 
Illumes  with  their  own  hearts  the  heart  of  Nature, 

Touching  her  darkest  feature 
With  revelation  for  man's  happiness, 

And  with  love's  couched  lance 
Wresting  from  Science  a  new  Humanism. 


32     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

Such  is  the  scholar  liberal :   for  him, 

Not  knowledge  which  ignores  the  Whole, 
But  knowledge  grafted  in  the  soul 

Is  scholarship;   to  esteem 
His  calling  justly  is  to  see 

That  culture  is  proficient  sympathy. 

For  all  that  issues  beautiful 
From  dim  retort  and  crucible, 
And  makes  our  modern  day  to  seem 
Arabian  night  or  opiate  dream :  — 
Genii,  that  on  the  wireless  air 
Transport  within  imagined  waves 
The  cosmic  Echo  from  her  caves 
To  work  their  will,  or  from  the  stars 
Expound  the  mysteries  of  Mars, 
Or  in  earth's  rotting  shale  prepare 
The  alchemy  of  radium,  — 
All  powers,  articulate  or  dumb, 
Which  scholars  probe  and  sages  scan, 
Are  meaningless  except  to  Man  — 
To  urge  his  peace,  to  ease  his  pain, 

And  from  his  mind's  domain 
To  exorcise  the  lurking  Caliban. 

To  exorcise !  —  Not  in  the  Middle  Age, 
With  Faust's  redemption,  did  the  devils  cease 
To  lure  great  doctors  to  their  tutelage, 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     33 

Whereby  to  lengthen  their  protracted  lease 
Of  the  lewd  rabble's  gaping  ignorance : 
Still,  with  incessant  metamorphosis, 

The  monsters  hatch  and  hiss 

And,  breeding,  grow 

To  honor'd  stature  in  the  imperil'd  state, 
Where  the  true  scholar  still  is  Prospero, 

Making  their  misshaped  natures  dance 
Attendance  on  his  master  vision:   So 
To  humble  monsters  to  the  use  of  men, 
The  foremost  scholar  is  first  citizen. 

He,  when  the  rank  broods  teem  and  generate 

Their  giant  seed, 

That  prowl  the  rich  land  with  impunity, 
W  here  corporate   greatness   stoops   to   cormorant 

greed, 
And  that  one    bulk,  much-mouth'd  and  subtle- 

gin'd, 

The  unsated  Minotaur,  Monopoly, 
Extorts  his  toll  in  the  meek  nation's  blood 

Of  boys  and  maidenhood,  — 
He  then,  the  scholar-leader,  pores  not  stale 
Upon  his  book,  nor  peers  where  sits  the  wind 
In  the  golden  weathercock  on  Minos'  gate, 
But  prescient,  girds  his  clear  mind  all  in  mail, 
And  gathering  round  the  time's  unperished  youth, 


34     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

Apportions  his  bright  armory  of  truth 
And  points  what  right-aimed  blow  shall  make  the 
beast  disgorge. 

So  did  that  steadfast  captain  of  our  race  — 

A  storm-trained  scholar  —  stand  at  Valley  Forge 

With  all  the  gales  of  England  in  his  face, 

And  sharing  forth  his  visionary  arms 

Of  faith  with  his  shorn  comrades,   smiled,   and 

hurled 

Victory  through  disaster's  blind  alarms, 
And  wrought  with  fearless  mind  the  future  of  a 

world. 


O  beautiful  and  spacious  one, 

My  Country  !      Spirit  free, 
Who  floatest  wild  on  that  lone  eagle's  wings 
Fledged  in  the  fiery  heart  of  Washington, 
And  fed  on  heart's  blood  of  each  dauntless  son 
Of  that  strong  father,  how  exceedingly 
Fair  is  thine  image,  when 
First  the  least-born  of  men 
Burns  with  thy  story  !     Then 
Thou  art  a  presence  never  darkling:   night 
Shrouding  thy  solemn  flight, 
Sprinkles,  with  hoary  rite, 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES     35 

Stars  on  thy  plumage;   morn, 

Ere  on  the  cottage  thorn 

Scarce  the  shy  warbler  sings, 

Fills  all  familiar  things 

With  thy  far  glory ;   dreams 
Of  thee  at  evening  haunt  the  hermit  thrush, 
And  in  his  ecstasy's  pure  after-hush, 
High  and  austerely  sweet,  thine  immanent  eagle 
screams. 

So  by  the  large  compulsion  of  that  Presence 

I  make  this  invocation; 

And  by  the  might  of  that  dear  name,  whose  es 
sence 

The  staling  tongue  of  usage  cannot  taint  — 
America  —  I  speak,  that  I  may  stir 
You,  her  far-ranging  universities, 

Through  glad  constraint 

Of  love  you  owe  to  her, 
Henceforward  to  conjoin  your  destinies 

In  grander  federation. 

VI 

Not  adversaries  in  the  scrambling  street 
Of  commerce,  need  your  nobler  wills  compete 
For  numbers  and  for  names.     A  saner  law 
Moves  your  cooperation,  and  the  awe 


36     ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES 

Of  that  shall  fix  a  sound  stability 
At  the  base  of  civic  freedom.     Strong  must  be 
The  scholar  in  himself.     Far  better  were  it 
Your  halls  stood  empty  and  their  corridors 
Silent,  than  that  the  youth  who  from  your  doors 
Go  forth  to  breed  the  nation,  should  inherit 

The  sowings  of  that  spirit 

Which  bows  the  mind  to  serve  the  vulgar  mood, 
Or  truckles  to  the  man  that  owns  the  multitude. 

It  cannot  be.     Never,  till  now,  before  — 

In  age  of  Plato  or  of  Abelard, 

In  empire  or  republic,  linking  shore 

With  shore  by  aspiration's  viewless  chain  — 

Has  your  high  calling  held  the  fair  regard 

And  faith  of  one  vast  people.     Not  in  vain 

Their  faith  abides  in  you.     The  taint  which  blinds 

The  weak  shall  not  be  yours.     Your  yards  and 

halls 

Still  with  expanding  splendor  shall  be  filled 
By  the  strong  magnet  of  the  sane  ideal, 

And  to  the  common  weal 
Shall  speed  their  generations  of  glad  youth 
Forth  in  the  land  —  alumni  of  the  guild 
Of  leadership,  the  minute-men  of  truth, 
Whose  muskets  are  their  uncorrupted  minds, 
Clean  for  their  country  where  her  service  calls. 


ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITIES      37 

VII 

Nobly  our  world  renews,  even  as  in  ages  gone. 
Man's  eras  have  their  vernal  equinox 
No  less  than  nature's :   Still,  on  that  wild  dawn 
When  the  high  winds,  unleashed,  no  longer  fawn 
At  Winter's  knees,  but  lift  his  sparse-blown  locks 
In  haggard  wrack  —  there,  on  the  looming  hills, 
Sharp  with  unearthly  light,  the  sudden  flocks 
Show  radiant,  and  on  the  vista'd  sills 
Of  Spring,  earth's  visionary  beauty  starts 
Revealed :   Not  otherwise  in  human  hearts 
Recurrent,  after  seasons  numb  and  blind, 
Freshly  the  ancient  Loveliness  reveals 

The  love  of  our  own  kind, 
Rekindling  in  our  race  the  raptures  of  the  mind. 


PROLOGUE    TO    THE    SAINT-GAUDENS 
MASQUE  l 

PERFORMED    AT   ASPET   IN   CORNISH 

Enter  IRIS 

IRIS 

FRESH  from  the  courts  of  dewy-colored  eve 
Jove  summons  me  before  you.  Who  I  am 
And  why  he  bids  me  here  I.  must  declare. 

1  In  June,  1905,  to  celebrate  the  twentieth  anniversary 
of  the  founding  of  the  Cornish  Colony  by  Augustus  Saint- 
Gaudens,  an  outdoor  masque  was  devised  and  performed 
by  his  neighbors  in  a  pine  grove  at  Aspet,  his  New  Hamp 
shire  home.  In  the  Masque,  written  by  Mr.  Louis  Evan 
Shipman,  more  than  seventy  persons  took  part,  among 
whom  were  some  forty  artists  and  writers  of  craftsmanly 
repute,  who  enacted  r61es  of  Greek  deities  and  demigods. 

About  twilight,  the  sculptor  with  his  family  and  some 
hundreds  of  guests  were  seated  in  front  of  a  green-gray 
curtain,  suspended  between  two  pines,  on  which  hung 
great  gilded  masks,  executed  by  Mr.  Maxfield  Fairish. 
Close  by,  secreted  artfully  behind  evergreens,  members 
of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  awaited  the  baton 
signal  of  Mr.  Arthur  Whiting,  conductor  and  composer 
of  the  music. 

Then,  in  the  softened  light,  emerged  from  between  the 
folds  of  the  curtain  the  tall  maidenly  figure  of  Iris,  in 
many-hued  diaphanous  veils,  holding  in  one  hand  a  staff 
of  living  fleur-de-lis.  Iris,  enacted  by  Miss  Frances 
Grimes,  the  sculptress,  spoke  the  accompanying  Pro 
logue. 

The  three  allusions  to  works  by  Saint-Gaudens  refer, 
of  course,  to  the  Shaw  Memorial  Bas-relief,  in  Boston,  the 
Sherman  Equestrian  Statue,  in  New  York,  and  the  Adams 
Memorial,  in  Washington. 

38 


PROLOGUE   TO   A   MASQUE  39 

My  home   is  half-light;   you    have   watched   me 

oft 

Through  closing  lids  at  noontide,  or  at  dusk, 
Moving  between  the  daylight  and  your  dreams, 
A  shape  illusory.     Whether  I  pause 
Midway  my  quivering  arc,  that  spans  the  roar 
And  tumbling  prisms  of  sheer  Niagara, 
Or  by  the  ferny  banks  of  Blowmedown 
Trellis  my  hair  with  braided  fleur-de-lis, 
Still  I  am  Iris,  and  my  mission  is 
To  shatter  the  white  beam  of  garish  day 
Into  a  thousand  mellower  tints  of  twilight, 
Spinning  across  the  sceptic  eyes  of  reason 
Fine  rainbow-films  of  fancy.     Such,  then,  I. 
But  whence,  emerging  from  the  curtained  wood 
Of  Aspet,  on  this  longest  summer  eve, 
While  yet  the  veerie  rings  his  vesper  chimes, 
I  have  made  journey  hither,  hearken  ! 

Late, 

Below  the  gilded  state-house  by  the  bay, 
Sitting  his  horse  in  proud  simplicity, 
I  left  a  young  commander;   thronged  beneath 
His  lifted  brow,  clouded  with  battle  dreams, 
The  eager  Ethiop  faces  onward  surged ; 
No  sound  arose  from  all  their  trampling  feet, 
But  the  imagined  drum-beats  rolled  in  bronze. 


40  PROLOGUE   TO   A   MASQUE 

From  these  I  passed  to  where  the  human  hives 
Shadow  the  stars  from  the  Metropolis, 
Whence,  turning  homeward  from  the  hell  of  war, 
Another  hero,  scarr'd  and  old,  there  rode; 
And  at  his  bridle-rein,  in  maiden  awe, 
Went  Victory  —  with  pity  in  her  eyes. 

A  third  and  Sibyl  form,  remote  and  mute, 

Brooding  alone  beside  a  secret  grave, 

Asked  with  unopening  eyes,  "  What  means  it  all  ?  " 

From  these  imagined  and  immortal  forms 
To  him,  O  mortals,  who  imagined  them, 
And  fixed  his  revery  in  stone  and  bronze, 
I  come  to  render  tribute,  not  of  praise 
Superfluous,  but  playful  badinage 
And  mock-Olympic  mummery,  whereby 
If  these  shall  cause  the  elvish  Gallic  smile 
To  twitch  his  lip,  or  stir  his  blarney  laugh, 
The  mock-Olympians  will  die  content. 

Behold,  then,  by  the  enchantment  of  this  staff 
A  magic  transformation:   not  such  change 
As  once  my  goddess  sister  Circe  wrought  — 
Circe,  whose  spell  debased  the  forms  divine 
Of  men  to  bristled  shapes  of  snout  and  horn: 
Mine  is  a  charm  reverse,  that  lifts,  not  lowers, 
By  power  whereof  all  neighbor  Jacks  and  Jills 


PROLOGUE   TO   A   MASQUE  41 

That  tug  their  art-pails  up  these  pasture  slopes 
Of  Cornish  are  converted  here  to  strut 
In  guise  of  antic  gods  and  demigods. 

[!RIS  waves  her  staff,  music  sounds  from  the  grove.] 

Hark  now !     'Tis  they,  who  clamor  to  begin 
Their  frolic  masque  of  satyr,  muse,  and  faun, 
And  on  the  shrine  of  mirth  make  sacrifice 
In  honor  of  their  only  pagan  saint. 

[!RIS  withdraws  between  the  curtains:  the  music 
grows  louder,  then  dies  away.  The  curtains, 
dividing,  open  upon  the  Masque.] 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL 

KEEP  closer  to  the  wall ;   stop  crawling ;  wait. 
We  have  our  orders.     Hold  the  dynamite. 
I  hear  their  sentry  cough.     The  moon  burns  white 
Behind  the  battlements,  and  cuts  each  one  — 
Turret  and  tower  —  an  inky  silhouette, 
Like  paper  castle-tops  I  used  to  trace 
With  scissors  as  a  boy.     Step  softly !     Place 
The  bomb  here,  underneath  the  garrison. 
Now  if  their  souls  are  dreaming  of  hell-fire, 
This   will    not   wake    them.     Midnight!     That's 

the  choir 
Of  children  hailing  the  Nativity. 

What  are  ye  that  walk  the  night 

Heaven's  will  divining? 
Shining  are  your  mantles  white 

And  your  staffs  are  shining. 

Shepherds,  we  have  come  from  far 
Dark  and  danger  scorning: 

We  have  seen  our  King  His  star 
By  the  gates  of  morning. 
42 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL  43 

Come  now,  this  is  no  time  for  hands  to  quake; 

On  this  one  breach  depends  the  victory, 

A  nation's  honor,  and  her  destiny. 

And  these,  who  lie  so  unsuspectingly 

In  sleep,  not  one  of  them  must  ever  wake 

This  side  of  - 

What  is  He  whose  star  ye  seek. 

Toilsomely  and  slowly? 
He  is  monarch  of  the  meek, 

Regent  of  the  lowly. 

Wise  men,  seek  another  land, 
Shun  our  lord  his  greeting: 

For  we  perish  at  his  hand, 
And  our  lambs  are  bleating. 

What  a  devilish  close  call ! 
There  creeps  the  sentry  on  the  shadow-wall 
Like  a  black  ant.     Quick,  now  —  the  fuse  ! 

What  are  ye  who  knock  by  night 

On  my  palace  portals? 
Triple  wreaths  of  silver  light 

Crown  you  like  immortals. 

Herod,  from  the  east  we  bring 

Fine  and  lordly  treasure. 
Where  is  He  that  born  is  King  ? 

We  would  do  him  pleasure. 


44  A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

These  your  gifts  uncover  them, 
Myrrh  and  spice,  before  me. 

Lo,  I  am  Jerusalem! 
Bow  ye  down,  adore  me! 

King,  your  shepherds  wretchedly 

Starve  without  your  city. 
You  Jerusalem  may  be, 

But  our  Lord  is  Pity. 

Quick,  fool ! 

This  is  our  country's  job,  and  you  her  tool. 
What  are  you  waiting  for  ?     You  want  to  think 
Before  you  kill  ?     You  dream  that  love  may  link 
All  born  of  woman  ?     Fool,  are  we  the  first 
To  live  in  mothers'  memories  accurst, 
Or  in  the  little  children's  helplessness  ? 
These  men,  like  us,  know  gentle  eyes  that  bless 
Their  goings  and  homecomings,  baby  hands 
That  reach,  fine  feet  that  dart,  at  their  commands. 
What,  then  ?     This  is  not  murder ;  this  is  war. 
We  are  not  men,  but  patriots.     Think  no  more: 
The  fuse  is  lighted ;   run  !     Run  for  the  shore  ! 

What  are  ye  that  screen  your  eyes 

From  the  awful  burning? 
Look  where  'neath  Flis  star  He  lies, 

Nestled  by  her  yearning. 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL  45 

Ye  that  saw  His  glory  shine,, 
What  were  dark  and  danger? 

Blessed  ye  that  make  your  shrine 
Mother,  Child,  and  manger. 

Now  the  Lord  of  Love  — 

Look  back  !     Look  back !     How  the  torn  earth- 
clouds  blot 

The  stars,  and  the  far  hilltop  heaves  the  roar ! 
Ah,  Merry  Christmas!     Almost  I'd  forgot. 


THE   DEATH   OF  VERESTCHAGIN  * 

WITH  gaze  serene  and  brow  of  silver  rime, 

He  watched  the  up-staring  sea  and   reeling 

land 
Converge,  as  limned  beneath  the  veteran  hand 

That  last,  fell  sketch  of  war  was  traced  sublime ; 

But  even  in  the  act  his  pencil  ruthlessly 

Was  snatched  away,  where  —  blasting  all  his 

view  — 
The  inexorable  Artist  stood,  and  drew 

The  awful  masterpiece  —  reality. 

And  now  the  silver  rime  is  on  the  wave, 
And  Verestchagin  sleeps  with  Makarof, 
And   calm,    above    the    red    brine's    eddying 
trough, 

The  eyes  of  Christ  and  Buddha  guard  his  grave. 

1  Vassili  Verestchagin,  the  Russian  painter  of  war 
themes,  while  sketching  a  naval  battle  off  Port  Arthur, 
sank  in  the  warship  Petropavlovsk,  with  Admiral  Makarof, 
April  4,  1904. 

46 


SHIRLEY    COMMON1 

NOT  ours,  upon  the  house-tops,  here  to  claim 
Battles  and  heroes  of  historic  scene, 
A  century  and  fifty  years  of  fame :  — 
Our  boast  is  silence  and  this  day's  serene. 

The  loud  circumference  of  jangling  lands, 
Conflict  and  craft  and  wrong  surround  us ;   still 
Shy  in  her  orchard-wildness  Shirley  stands: 
A  hushed  spectator  on  her  mapled  hill. 

Here  to  her  simple  festival  she  calls 
Her  folk  home  —  yet  not  all :  Where  are  they  now, 
The  Pilgrim  race  that  piled  her  corn-field  walls, 
And  served  the  Lord  with  patience  and  a  plough  ? 

The  hardy  citizens  that  now  are  sod 
They  may  not  hear  her  summons  home ;   and  yet 
The  elm-hid  belfry  nestles  toward  their  God, 
And  we,  who  gather  here,  do  not  forget. 

1  Read  at  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary 
of  the  Town  of  Shirley,  Massachusetts,  July  30,  1903,  in 
the  First  Parish  Meeting-House. 
47 


48  SHIRLEY   COMMON 

For  still  the  sights  familiar  to  their  eyes 
Are  dear  to  ours:   the  spires  of  Groton  blaze 
Their  weathercocks  from  Gallows-Hill's  sunrise, 
And  the  long  slopes  of  Harvard  slant  in  haze; 

And  still,  at  night,  the  bittern  booms  to  rest, 
The  secret  whip-poor-will  complains  afar ; 
And  still  Wachusett  marshals  in  the  west 
The  sunset  and  his  solitary  star. 

Here,  then,  let  thoughts  be  memories;    let  our 

pride 

Be  the  untainted  loveliness,  which  is 
Our  Shirley's  dower  on  woods  and  pastures  pied  ; 
Let  our  ambition,  even  as  hers,  be  this :  — 

Unenvious,  to  win  the  envied  bays 
Of  nature's  health  and  honest  common  sense; 
And,  by  the  peace  of  sane,  inglorious  days, 
To  earn  the  unrepute  of  innocence. 


ISAAK   WALTON   IN   MAIDEN   LANE 

IN  that  Manhattan  alley  long  yclept, 

With  gentle  olden  music,  Maiden  Lane, 

Where  sick  and  sad -eyed  Traffic  scarce  has  slept 

Even  at  midnight,  in  her  lust  for  gain 

Rolling  in  restive  pain 

Through  the  stern  vigil  of  a  century, 

There,  mid  the  din  of  harsh  reality  — 

The  newsboy's  shriek,  car's  clang  and  huckster's 

chaff, 

The  cobble's  roar,  and  the  loud  drayman's  laugh, 
And  the  dull  stare, 
The  inhuman,  hunted  glare 
Of  the  faces  —  the  gray  faces 
Of  Mammon's  stark-mad  races, 
Sordid  and  slattern, 
Modish  and  tattern, 
Loveless  in  their  misery  — 
There,  in  the  midst  of  all, 
Seated  upon  a  stall, 

Musing  on  meadows,  Isaak,  I  met  thee !  — 
E  49 


50     ISAAK   WALTON   IN   MAIDEN   LANE 

How  my  heart  stopped  for  too  much  happiness, 
To  meet  thee  there  in  that  maelstrom  of  men, 
Benignant,  wise  and  calm !    Ah,  gently  then 
Came  back,  in  fancy's  dress, 
All  that  of  old  was  sweet, 
Serene  and  fair,  to  grace  the  garish  street. 
Musing  on  meadows  now  in  Maiden  Lane, 
The  turbid  current  surging  at  my  side 
Became  the  flow  of  Thames'  sequestered  tide, 
The  newsboy's  cry  waned  to  a  curlew's  call, 
The  jangling  pedlar  tended  tinkling  sheep 
Along    green     hedgerows;   even    the    drayman's 

brawl 

Sweetened  to  an  old  soliloquy,  till  all 
That  strident  world  has  chastened  to  a  sleep 
Where,  in  a  twilit  eddy  of  my  dream, 
Thine  image,  Isaak,  pored  upon  a  bream. 


THE  SISTINE  EVE 

FRAGMENTS  OF  AN  ORATORIO 
WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BEGINNING 
OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 


PLAN 

OVERTURE 

PRELUDE 
FIRST  CANTO  :    The  Birth  of  Eve 

FIRST  INTERLUDE 
SECOND  CANTO:    The  Temptation  of  Eve 

SECOND  INTERLUDE 
THIRD  CANTO  :    The  Birth  of  Man 


PRESENCES  l 

SPEAKING  PRESENCES:    The  Sistine  Spirit 

The  Spirit  of  the  Vatican 

SOLO  PRESENCES:  Adam 

The  Persian  Sibyl 

The  Cumcean  Sibyl 

The  Delphic  Sibyl 

Judith 

Goliath 

Jonas 

Jeremiah 

Isaiah 

The  Expelling  Angel 

Eve 

CHORAL  PRESENCES  :       The  Cornice  Cherubim 
Symbolic  Figures 
Botticelli's  Women 
Shapes     in     "  The    Last 
Judgment " 

SCENE 
The  Sistine  Chapel,  Rome 

TIME 

Midnight,  before  the  Dawn  of  1901 
High  pontifical  mass  is  being  celebrated.     Car 
dinals  and  prelates  in  splendid  vestments,  assembled. 

1  These  Dramatis  Personce  are  figures  in  the  paintings 
by  Michelangelo  and  Botticelli  on  the  ceiling  and  walls  of 
the  Sistine  Chapel. 

53 


"Laforza  d'  un  bel  volto  al  del  mi  sprona 
[Ch*  altro  in  terra  non  e  che  mi  diletti] 
E  vivo  ascendo  tra  gli  spirti  eletti, 
Grazia  ch'  ad  uom  mortal  raro  si  dona. 

SI  ben  col  suofattor  /'  opra  consuona, 
Ch9  a  lui  mi  levo  per  divin  concetti, 
E  quivi  informo  i  pensier  tutti  e  i  detti, 
Ardendo,  amando  per  gentil  persona. 

Onde,  se  mai  da  due  begli  occhi  il  guardo 
Torcer  non  so,  conosco  in  lor  la  luce 
Che  mi  mostra  la  via  ch?  a  Dio  mi  guide. 
E  se  nel  lume  loro  acceso  io  ardo, 
Nel  nobilfoco  mio  dolce  riluce 
La  gioia  che  nel  cielo  eterna  ride." 

MICHELANGELO  BUONARROTI;  Sonetto  III 


54 


OVERTURE 

A    VOICE    FROM    THE    CHAPEL    CEILING 

SIBYLS  and  prophets  of  undying  art, 
Awake  !   for  Buonarrotti's  golden  dome 
Is  as  an  angel's  passing-bell,  to  toll  — 
On  midnight's  starry,  tingling  silentness  — 
The  interring  of  an  Age.     Wake  and  behold  ! 
They  bear  her  toward  the  never-shutting  doors 
Which  fearful  mortals  screen  with  draperies 
To  bar  the  eternal  night.  —  Lo,  she  has  passed 
With  bead  and  psalm  and  solemn  catafalque, 
With  mitred  state,  and  pomp  episcopal, 
The  latest  of  the  sovereigns  of  time  — 
Nineteenth  among  the  entombed  centuries  — 
Has  sealed  forever  her  pregnant  lips,  and  lies 
Sculptured  in  the  cold  clay  of  history. 

But  thou,  O  live  new-crowned  Herculean  Age, 
Who  clingest  to  the  rugged  breast  of  Labor, 
Gazing  with  wonder  in  calm  Science'  eyes, 
While  Poesie,  with  warm  tears  on  her  cheek, 
Searches  thy  look,  in  passion  lost  of  pathos,  — 
Thou  titan  child  of  promise,  hail  to  thee ! 
55 


56  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

And  while  these  spirits,  with  their  serene  eyes 
Of  strifeless  beauty  and  strong  consummation 
[Spirits  that  pass  not  with  the  passing  age] 
Chant  o'er  thine  earliest  breathing,  may  the  hymn 
Which  they  shall  lift  in  prayer  to  the  first  Mother, 
Be  as  an  exhortation,  to  incite 
Thy  dreams  to  deeds  in  thy  maturer  days. 

And  now,  while  all  the  kneeling  prelates  pray, 
Spirits,  which  are  my  voices,  even  as  the  stops 
Are  to  the  lute,  awake  your  harmonies ! 
And  celebrate  the  pain  and  the  desire, 
The  daring  and  the  victory,  of  her 
Who  set  love's  seal  upon  the  centuries. 

A    VOICE    FROM    THE    ALTAR 

Other?     Of  whom? 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  CEILING 
Awake,  Divinities ! 

CHORUS  OF  PRESENCES 

Thou  whose  form  crepuscular 

Dawns  through  the  Sistine  heaven,  as  a  star 

Through  autumn  twilight,  beautiful 

Our  mother  Eve  — 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  57 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  ALTAR 

Peace,  painted  Forms  !     Or  if  ye,  who  have  sat 

The  mute  spectators  of  my  solemn  Mass 

For  vague  centennials  of  memory, 

Now  ope  your  lips  inspired,  let  it  not  be 

To  chant  amid  these  rites  pontifical 

A  song  of  sacrilege.  —  Peace,  painted  Forms ! 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  CEILING 

What  art  thou  there  below,  with  taper  eyes 
Upraised  from  many  a  prostrate  cardinal, 
Who  puffest,  from  thy  vast,  seclusive  cowl, 
Columnar  storms  of  incense  ?     Whose  are  thine 
Imponderous   and   gilded   limbs,   which   show  — 
Between  the  silky  folds  of  surplices  — 
Like  pillars,  sculptured  in  a  pagan  shrine 
Or  pillaged  Coliseum  ? 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  ALTAR 

Answer  thou  ! 

What  voice  is  thine,  visible  Aspiration, 
Whose  torse,  half  chiselled  from  cerulean  cloud, 
Outlifts  the  youthful  arm  indomitable 
Of  David,  who  at  Florence  guards  the  Palace, 
While  thy  rapt  brow  hurls  the  time-piercing  gaze 


58  THE   SISTINE    EVE 

Of  Moses,  in  St.  Peter's-of-the-Chains  ? 
What  is  thy  name,  majestic  Grace  of  Power? 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  CEILING 
I  am  the  Sistine  Spirit.     What  art  thou  ? 

THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  ALTAR 

The  Spirit  of  the  Vatican.     My  voice 

Is  the  peal'd  organ  of  perennial  Rome, 

And  even  as  those  sibyls  are  thy  stops 

So  all  these  red  and  golden  reeds  are  mine: 

But  now,  until  this  sacred  mass  be  said, 

Be  silent,  thou  !  or  let  our  requiem 

Be  sung  in  harmony. 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

What  discord  can 

Arise,  when  Power  prays  to  Innocence 
And  Beauty? 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  VATICAN 

None ;  but  these,  thy  sensuous  choir, 
Dare  to  uplift  their  ritual  tether  — 
To  her,  whose  fluent  and  unstable  mind, 
Impregned  with  lust  of  new  and  gloss  of  beauty, 
Became  a  fair  conception-place  for  Satan; 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  59 

To  Eve,  whose  folly  wrought  the  fall  of  Man, 
Yea,  all  the  dire  resultance  of  his  fall. 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

Man  never  fell.  The  inexorable  blow 
Of  the  Expelling  Angel  was  the  stroke 
Which  first  conferred  God's  knighthood  on  his 

nature, 

Kindling  that  anguish,  whereby  first  he  rose 
To  the  protective  stature  of  his  soul. 
This  Eve  first  knew  was  so,  when  she  loved  Adam. 
For  it  was  she  who  first,  feeling  herself 
A  child  of  God,  yearned  in  her  little  Eden, 
Yearned  for  herself  and  Adam,  as  true  lovers, 
For  aims  beyond  their  summer-day  self-seeking; 
And  even  while  she  grasped  the  fateful  fruit, 
Smiled  in  the  dream  of  nobler  mortal  sons 
Instead  of  an  idle  immortality,  — 
Smiled,  and  then  reached  the  fruit  to  Adam,  so 
To  share  with  him  the  awful  insurrection. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  VATICAN 

Preposterous  Spirit !  does  the  fallen  race 
Of  man  fulfil  her  dream  ?     Reveal  to  me 
A  nobler  mortal  son   whose  angel  stature 
Exceeds  his  father  Adam's  ere  his  fall. 


60  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

Spirit  of  earthward  vision,  —  even  I ! 
Yea,  these  and  I  and  more  than  us  are  Man. 
Our  exaltation  doth  confute  his  fall, 
And  build  again,  in  beauty,  art  and  love, 
Another  and  inviolable  Eden. 

Speak !  ye  serene  and  lofty  Presences, 
Delineations  of  inspired  Power ! 
Awake !  ye  children  of  a  child  of  God, 
And  hymn,  with  your  chromatic  harmonies, 
The  prelude  and  the  Trilogy  austere, 
Wherein  the  intuitive  grace  of  Woman's  love 
Enacts  the  eternal  Genesis  of  Man. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  VATICAN 
Strange  spirit,  they  are  silent. 


THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

Dost  thou  hear 


No  sound  ? 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  VATICAN 

No  sound ;  save  only  the  faint  breath 
Of  cardinals,  that  tell  their  rosaries. 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  61 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

Hark  !  —  Hearest  thou  no  mural  melody  ? 

The  playing  organ  of  an  ocular  sense, 

The  hidden  choristers  of  lovely  hues, 

The  chant  of  heavenly  forms  ?  —  Once  more,  with 

all 

Thy  breathess  spirit  listening  in  thine  eyes  — 
No  music  ? 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  VATICAN 
None. 


PRELUDE 

CHORUS  OF  PRESENCES 

O  ye  wise,  love  Beauty  !    All 

Ye  strong,  revere  her  ! 
Through  passion's  starry  arches  thrill 
The  echoes  of  her  light  footfall ; 
The  worlds,  to  do  her  deathless  will, 

Draw  near  her. 

By  ways  divinely  sensuous, 
Her  viewless  form  entices  us 
'Mid  visions  pale  and  passionate 
To  kneel  beside  her  awful  gate; 
Where,  girt  with  song  and  silences, 
The  lonely  mind  her  mansion  is. 

The  innocent  obey  her  call, 

The  happy  know  her  dreamy  face 

And  hear  her; 

Despair  is  softened  by  her  grace, 
And  sorrow  is  her  worshipper. 
All  things  that  love  grow  like  to  her. 
O  ye  wise,  love  Beauty  !    All 

Ye  strong,  revere  her. 
62 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  63 

FIRST  SYMBOLIC  FIGURE 

Who  draws  his  face  beneath  a  cowl  of  cloud 
And  kneels  beside  the  altar,  dumb  and  bow'd  ? 

SECOND  FIGURE 

That  is  the  Spirit  of  the  Vatican : 
He  meditates  upon  the  Fall  of  Man. 

THIRD  FIGURE 

But  what  is  he,  with  countenance  beguiPd, 
That  smiles  upon  the  sleeping  titan-child  ? 

FOURTH  FIGURE 

The  Sistine  Spirit.  —  See  !    he  draws  away 
The  incense-curtain  from  our  holy  play. 

THE  FIGURES 

That  all  the  enactments  of  our  mural  stage 
May  pass  as  dreams  before  the  new-born  Ageu 


FIRST   CANTO:    THE  BIRTH  OF  EVE 

SEMICHORUS  OF  SYMBOLIC  FIGURES 

How  like  a  garden  lies  the  world 

The  day  when  love  is  born; 
Strange  beauty  glows  upon  old  boughs, 

Strange  flowers  conceal  the  thorn; 
And  noon  and  night  are  tinged  with  light 

Of  unfamiliar  morn. 

CHORUS 

While  with  a  sense  —  as  though  a  god  were  near 

it  — 
Of  noble  languor,  droops  the  lover's  spirit. 

SEMICHORUS 

So  float  the  trembling  hues  around 

This  maid  in  Paradise. 
A  joy,  a  reticence,  a  prayer, 

Clothe  with  bright  poesies 
Her  meek  limbs,  where  she  worships  there 

In  God  the  Father's  eyes. 
64 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  65 

CHORUS 

While,  drawing  deep  from  beauty's  opiate  springs 
A  sigh  of  power,  recumbent  Adam  sings : 

ADAM 

As  I  lay  :n  Eden, 
Alone  with  Love  and  Lethargy, 
An  immortal  maiden 
Was  conceived  in  heaven 
And  born  to  me. 

All  that  I  had  dreamed 
And  sculptured  from  the  cloud-lit  skies,  — 

All  that  loved  and  gleamed 
And  sang,  in  my  encircling  Paradise,  — 

The  summit's  calm, 
The  flower's  voluptuousness, 

The  forest's  majesty, 
Night's  balm, 

The  morning's  victory 
And  twilight's  veiled  melodiousness  — 

Became  a  glowing  fire 

In  me  and  my  desire. 

As  I  lay  in  Eden, 

My  bosom  was  unfolded; 


66  THE   SISTINE    EVE 

And  an  elemental  Hand, 
Swift,  mysterious  and  grand, 

Culled  that  perfect  maiden  — 
With  all  that  my  wild  soul  contained 
Of  passion  peerless  and  unstained  — 

As  erst  by  heaven  she  was  moulded. 

And  the  maiden,  in  that  place, 
Grew  before  her  Maker's  face 
To  a  form  [methought  I  dreamed] 
Which  was  what  beauty  only  seemed. 
And  my  lax  arm  limply  pressed 
To  my  warm  and  unnerved  breast, 
And  my  brow  sank  in  a  swoon, 
And  I  smelt  the  scents  of  noon, 
And  I  felt  the  faint  winds  straying, 
And  my  heart  could  scarce  conceive 
What  the  Father's  Voice  was  saying: 
"Adam,  behold  thine  Eve!" 

A  FIGURE 

Hush  !  —  He  is  silent.     Spirits,  he  has  swooned : 
And  from  his  breast  bright  Eve  has  flowered  forth ; 
As  when  the  passion  of  the  nightingale 
Thrills  and  expands  through  his  eternal  arches, 
Recumbent  Rome  feels  the  faun-blood  of  Nature 
Leap  in  his  limbs,  while  an  imponderous  rib 


THE    SISTINE   EVE  67 

Of  marble  sloth  from  his  immortal  heart 
Vast  and  invisibly  is  plucked  away, 
And  from  that  rent  —  profuse  of  ecstasy, 
Exhilarant  of  life  and  innocence, 
Trailing  bright  incense  for  her  naked  glory  — 
Outpours  the  Spring. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

How  fair  he  sleeps  —  this  lordly  child  of  Time  ! 
In  sleep,  the  soul  is  in  its  infancy 
And  Power  a  babe  again.     But  soon  the  dawn 
Will  break,  and  he  will  rise  to  titan-stature. 

Meanwhile,  within  the  crystal  of  his  slumber, 
O'erhanging  visions  pass,  as  o'er  a  lake 
The  hues  of  sunset,  sweeping  across  heaven, 
Lay  down  their  splendors  in  its  placid  heart, 
And  passing,  leave  no  tremor  on  its  face. 


68 


SECOND    CANTO:   THE   TEMPTATION 
OF  EVE 

CHORUS  OF  THE  CORNICE  CHERUBIM 

The  Tree  !  —  Behold  the  curtain-cloud  is  cleft ! 
The  Tree,  in  all  its  pride  and  mystery ! 

And  smiling  on  its  left 

Content  and  Innocence,  Self-love  and  Leth 
argy; 

And  on  its  right, 
Departing  into  night  — 
Anguish,  Sin,  Death,  Love  and  Eternity ! 

A   SYMBOLIC   FIGURE 

Sister  of  an  Orient  eld, 

What  read'st  thou  from  that  parchment,  held 

Close  to  thine  eyes,  as  if  thou  spelled 

Secrets  from  all  else  withheld, 
Or  as,  at  twilight,  thou  should  squint  to  see 
A  form,  that  moves  or  stands  beyond  thy  scrutiny  ? 

THE  PERSIAN  SIBYL 

I  trace  and  read,  in  Time's  obscure  abysm,  — 
Where  cold  Imagination,  like  a  prism, 
69 


70  THE    SISTINE   EVE 

Darts    many-colored   beams    on   the   carved 

walls,  — 
The  subtle  sorceries  of  scepticism. 

I  seek  —  and  vainly  through  the  centuries 
I  sought  —  a  fire,  which  kindled  never  dies, 

Like  that  which  yonder,  'neath  the  darkling 

Tree 
Of  Knowledge,  burns  in  Eve's  uplifted  eyes. 

THE  FIGURE 

Thou,  loosened  from  whose  sea-green  veil 
The  auburn  tresses  lightly  trail, 
While  soft  thy  mantle's  azure  pale 
Floats  round  thee,  like  a  filling  sail, 
Where  rests  thy  dreamy  gaze,  as  though,  unfurl'd 
On  some  Olympic  height,  it  brooded  o'er  the  world  ? 

THE  DELPHIC  SIBYL 

I  dream  (and  in  my  dream,  I  smile) 
Of  a  maid  in  Melos'  isle  — 

How  beautiful  she  was  ! 
She  kept  no  slave,  she  wore  no  crown, 
But  all  the  gods  from  heaven  looked  down 

To  see  her  pass. 

Her  brow  was  calm,  her  limbs  were  free; 
The  might  of  her  simplicity 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  71 

To  men  seemed  more  than  human : 
A  Deity  !   they  cried ;   a  new 
Venus  !  —  But  one,  who  loved  her,  knew 

That  she  was  Woman. 

He  wrought  her  all  of  marble  pure. 
He  cried :   Thy  beauty  shall  endure 

When  Hellas  sleeps  in  clay. 
Behold,  O  World,  thy  Womanhood  !  — 
They  smote  the  statue  where  she  stood, 

And  hewed  the  arms  away. 

They  buried  her  both  dark  and  deep ; 
They  bade  their  wives  and  sisters  heap 

Mould  on  her,  with  their  hands :  — 
She  rose  like  light !     The  centuries 
Slipped  like  a  garment  to  her  knees, 

And  still  she  stands  ! 


THE  FIGURE 

Sibyl  hoar,  Enchantress  holy, 
Giantess  of  Melancholy, 
Tell  us  — 

CHORUS  OF  CHERUBIM 
Hush! 


72  THE   SISTINE    EVE 

THE  FIGURE 

What  awful  book 
(As  when  some  rugged  hill 
Cleaves  with  a  titan's  look) 
Opens  beneath  thy  gaze, 
Where  thy  vast,  pagan  face 

Is  darkened  under 
Night-hues  of  unreverberating  thunder? 

CHORUS  OF  CHERUBIM 

Still !   O  still ! 
She  is  not  such 
As  tone  of  mortal  song  can  touch. 

THE  FIGURE 

Speak,  Prophetess ! 
We  fear  —  we  guess  — 
What  our  hearts  wait  in  breathlessness. 

THE  CUM^EAN  SIBYL 

"Tarquin  !   Tarquin  !"  —  Thousand  score 
They  hailed  him  god  and  emperor. 
I  entered  at  his  palace  door: 
I  looked  at  him  — 

CHORUS  OF  CHERUBIM 

No  more  !   No  more  ! 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  73 

THE  CUM^AN  SIBYL 

I  said :  I  bring  thee  volumes  nine. 
Men  name  thee  lordly  and  divine: 
Thou  shall  be  —  but  the  price  is  mine ! 
He  said :   I  take  no  price  of  thine. 

I  hurled  six  volumes  in  the  flame. 
He  cried :   What  price  now  dost  thou  name. 
O  Prophetess  ?  —  I  said :   The  same  ! 
He  frowned ;   I  went  the  way  I  came. 

He  sent  for  me  at  set  of  sun: 
And  hast  thou  burned  them  all  but  one? 
And  hast  no  other  price  ?  —  Nay,  none. 
He  answered :   Then  thy  will  be  done  ! 

THE  FIGURE 

Speak,  Sibyl,  speak !     What  was  the  price 
Which  asked  so  proud  a  sacrifice? 

JUDITH 

[Aside  to  her  maid,  who  bears  the  head  of  Holo- 
femes  on  a  golden  salver] 

Hark  what  she  saith ! 

THE  CUIVLEAN  SIBYL 

The  same  which  yonder,  of  Eve's  eyes, 
The  Serpent  asks,  in  Paradise. 


74  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

JUDITH 
I  guessed  it :  —  death. 

GOLIATH  [to  David] 

Death  ! 
******* 

FIRST  CHERUB 

Hark    yonder,    where    from    wall    to    wall,    two 

Prophets 

Converse  like  oaks  in  storm  across  a  grove, 
One  husht  in  the  roar,  one  vocal  in  the  lull. 

SECOND  CHERUB 
Which  one  is  silent? 

FIRST  CHERUB 

He  who,  browed  benign, 
Sits  like  the  Prince  of  Death,  soliloquizing 
With  the  commanding  genius  of  his  soul. 

SECOND  CHERUB 

But  the  other  one:   What  beetling  thoughts  are 

his 

Where,  like  a  crag  o'erclu'ng  by  cataracts, 
He    murmurs  deep  in  the   tortuous  folds  of  his 

beard  ? 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  75 

FIRST  CHERUB 
Listen ! 

JEREMIAH 

I  have  likened  the  Daughter  of  Zion  to  a  comely 

and  delicate  woman: 
The  shepherds  with  their  flocks  shall  come  unto 

her  round  about. 
They  shall  pitch  their  tents  against  her ;  they  shall 

feed  every  one  in  his  place. — 
Yea,  Eve,  men  are  thy  shepherds,  and  thou  like 

the  Daughter  of  Zion. 

Prepare  ye  war  against  her !     Arise  !  let  us  go  up 

at  noon. 
Woe  unto  us !  for  the  day  goeth  away,  and  the 

shadows  of  evening 
Are  stretched  out  and  afar.     Arise  !  let  us  go  up 

by  night, 
And  let  us  destroy  her  palaces.     Let  us  smite  the 

city  that  fed  us  !  — 
Yea,  Eve,  men  are  thy  shepherds,  and  thou  like 

the  Daughter  of  Zion. 

ISAIAH 

Yet  shall  they  not  destroy  her !     But  their  land 

shall  be  named  Ignorance. 
It  shall  be  no  more  inhabited,  but  wild  beasts  of 

the  desert  shall  lie  there. 


76  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

Yea,  satyrs  shall  dance  on  their  hearths,  and 
dragons  crouch  in  their  palaces. 

For  the  city  is  stablished,  O  Eve,  where  thy 
dreaming  shall  have  its  fruition. 

Where  shall  the  Ignorant  dwell?     Yea,  where  is 

the  land  of  their  Eden  ? 
The  grass  thereof  shall  wither;  their  heavens  be 

closed  as  a  scroll ; 
And  all  their  host  shall  fall  down,  as  the  leaf  fall- 

eth  off  from  the  vine. 
But    the    city  is   stablished    in  Man,   where    thy 

dreaming,  O  Eve,  hath  fruition. 

CHORUS  OF  CHERUBIM 

The  Tree  !     The  smiling,  bitter  Tree  ! 
The  Tree,  in  all  its  pride  and  mystery ! 

ADAM  [beneath  the  Tree] 

Where  dost  thou  look,  beloved,  O  my  Bride? 

Where  dost  thou  gaze  beyond  and  far  away  ? 
Dost  thou  not  feel  thy  lover  at  thy  side, 

And  the  soft  winds  of  this  cerulean  day  ? 
Why  look'st  thou  so,  beloved,  O  my  Bride? 

THE  SNAKE 

Lift  up  thine  eyes  to  mine,  daughter  of  God  ! 
Like  birds  into  heaven  let  them  enter  in :  — 


THE    SISTINE    EVE  77 

Behold  an  angel  battling  with  a  cloud ; 

The  angel  is  Man ;  the  splendid  cloud  is  Sin ; 
The  battle  is  Man's  Soul,  daughter  of  God. 

ADAM 

Let  us  go  forth  into  our  garden,  love: 

The  birds  are  singing  and  the  beasts  awaken. 

Dew-laden  dreams  fall  round  us  from  above, 

Like  almond-bloom,  when  breezy  boughs  are 
shaken. 

Let  us  go  forth  into  our  garden,  love ! 

THE  SNAKE 

Eat  of  the  fruit  of  Knowledge,  Child  of  Eden  ! 
Of  bitter  Knowledge,  which  hath  roots    in 

death. 

Dare  with    thy  dreams  —  yea,  that  which  is  for 
bidden  ! 

For  life  is  but  a  dream  which  conquereth 
Its  coil  of  slumber.     Live,  then,  Child  of  Eden  ! 

ADAM 

Love,  there  shall  be  no  thought  but  Thee  and  Me 
Forevermore.     When  our  two  spirits  mate, 

Time  and  the  world  shall  do  us  ministry 
And  all  the  stars  contribute  to  our  state. 

Love,  there  shall  be  no  joy  but  Thee  and  Me. 


78  THE    SISTINE   EVE 

THE  SNAKE 

Behold  the  stars  —  and  Thee  and  Me  forgotten  ! 
Time  and  the  world  and   other  lovers,  trem 

bling 
At  all  the  beauty  still  to  be  begotten; 

Yea,  hark  to  thine  and  Adam's  sons  assem 

bling 
To  hymn  thy  deed,  when  Eden  lies  forgotten. 


CHORUS  OF  MALE  PRESENCES 

We  thirst  for  life,  and  the  more  we  thirst 
The  swifter  the  rivers  of  love  outpour 

To  quench  us; 

Like  the  living,  leaping  waters  that  burst 
From  the  Prophet's  stroke  on  the  desert's  shore, 
They  uprise  and  drench  us, 
Yet  we  thirst  the  more 
And  we  joy  to  thirst, 
For  we  count  the  pain  a  joy  to  repay  us, 
When  the  power  of  love,  which  pants  to  allay  us, 
Quickens  again 
And  again,  as  at  first, 
The  infinite  rapture  the.  weak  call  pain. 

And  we  know  —  for  we  have  sharpened  the  dull  edge 
Of  sense  on  the  sword  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge, 


THE    SISTINE   EVE  79 

And   we   feel  —  as   Spring  feels   the   sky   in   the 

sod  — 

That  we  are  the  sons  of  a  son  of  God. 
And  we  kindle  from  that  a  divine  volition  — 
The  fire  of  more  than  a  mortal  ambition, 
The  love  of  a  conflict  deep  and  grand 
Which  only  Manhood  can  understand,  — 
And  we  bless  the  Apple,  that  erst  was  accurst, 
And  our  Mother  Eve,  who  bestowed  the  thirst, 
Which  vaults,  like  flame,  through  spirit  and  brain, 
And  courses  like  vigor  through  every  vein, 
In  seeking  the  joys  that  the  weak  call  pain. 

CHORUS  OF  BOTTICELLI'S  WOMEN 

We  thirst  for  love,  and  the  more  we  thirst 
The  deeper  our  spirits  and  limbs  are  immerst 

In  the  beauty,  that  is  love's  radiance: 
Out  at  our  eyes,  o'er  the  tremulous  brim 
Of  our  hearts,  it  beams,  as  at  heaven's  rim 

The  moon  brightens  over  a  lake  in  a  trance ; 
Till  a  peace,  more  lovely  than  morning  light, 
Makes  us  grow  like  lilies,  tall  and  bright, 

From  the  banks  of  Sin,  which  is  Ignorance. 

And  we  take  an  innocent,  shy  delight 

In  the  flow  of  our  maiden  forms,  and  the  sight 

Of  our  faces,  half  glimpsed,  half  recondite, 


80  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

And  the  luminous  coils  of  our  looping  dresses, 

Which  emulate  the  beauty  of  tresses, 

And    the   flower-like   grace   of   our   hands;    but 

these 
Are  the  symbols  of  inner  serenities. 

For  we  know  [from  that  piercing  intuition 
Which  takes  from  Eve  its  superb  ignition] 
And  we  feel  —  by  the  light  in  each  other's  eyes  — 
That  we  are  the  daughters  of  Paradise. 
And  this  sense  brings  with  it  a  certitude 
.Of  the  immortal  aim  of  this  mortal  feud, 
And  makes  us  simply  reconciled 
With  weakness  of  woman  and  birth  of  child, 
And  makes  our  souls,  in  largess,  be 
Self-renderers  to  futurity, 
With  a  faith,  miscalled  fatuity 
By  those  who  love  beauty  less  than  we, 
And  a  passive  joy  in  the  present's  good, 
And  a  self-forgetting,  understood 
By  the  heart  alone  of  womanhood. 
And  therefore  we  bless  the  divinely  human 
Heart  of  Eve,  that  created  us  Woman, 
And  gave  us  that  insight,  which  can  prove 
Its  faith,  that  ours  —  while  the  planets  move  — 
Are   the   worship   and   strength   of  the   men   we 
love. 


THE   SISTINE   EVE  81 


CHORUS  OF  SHAPES  IN  "THE  LAST  JUDGMENT" 

We  are  the  Phantoms,  which  the  exceeding  mad 
ness 
Of  mortal  Ignorance  creates  in  sadness 

Out  of  the  clouds  of  conflict  and  of  pain. 
Horror  and  Hopelessness,  amid  the  gnarring 
And  knotted  tumult  of  our  rabid  warring, 

Spawn  us,  and  their  own  Dark  devours  us 
again. 

Hateful  to  others,  to  ourselves  abhorrent, 
We  fume  and  wrestle,  like  a  falling  torrent 

That,  fearing,  hastens  its  own  overthrow; 
Or  bleakly  blown  upon  by  winds  eternal, 
Like  shadowy  spirits  strewn  on  shores  infernal, 

Downcast,  we  file  in  diuturnity  of  woe. 

Far  from  the  lamps  of  Dawn  and  pure  Orion, 
We  endure  the  anarch  tortures  of  Ixion  — 

Immortal  anguish :   misery  !   O  pain  ! 
Love,  send  thy  light  amid  our  dim  abortions, 
To  show  that  we  are  evanescent  portions 

Of  the  Mind's  mortal  battling  for  the  eternal 
gain. 


82  THE   SISTINE   EVE 

JONAS 

Awful  and  dazzling  Loveliness ! 
Immortal  Render  of  our  mystery ! 
O  World  !     O  orbed  Time  ! 

0  Heaven  !    And  does  my  spirit  climb 
Beyond  them  all,  beyond  them  all  —  to  thee, 
Lady  ineffable  of  Love  ?  —  This,  this 

It  is  to  love,  to  dare  and  to  achieve ! 

Behold,  O  Eve, 

The  consummation  of  thy  bitter  Tree. 
Look,    mighty   Mother !    Even   thou   didst   con 
ceive 

This  son  !  —  Thine  insurrection  leaps  in  me, 
An  effervescing  fire,  a  piercing  foison 
Of  keen  effulgence !    Vision  in  mine  eyes 
Like  clouded  wine  it  pours,  and  in  my  limbs 

Impenetrating  joy,  subtler  than  poison, 
And  in  mine  ears  —  incomparable  hymns  ! 

Yea,  like  a  Charioteer,  on  whirling  Time, 

1  sit  sublime, 

% 

And  guide,  with  my  majestical  left  hand, 
The  invisible  reins  of  nameless  black  Despairs 
And  haughty  Miseries  —  a  chafing  band 
That  plunge  and   tremble,   like  enraged   Night 
mares, 

In  the  dusk  of  the  Last  Judgment;    these,  like 
steeds, 


THE   SISTINE    EVE  83 

Propel  the  triumph  of  my  viewless  car, 
And  while  the  purple  incense  streams  from  under 
The  trampling  fleetness  of  their  muffled  thunder, 
And  while  their  flanks   froth   terrors,   in   bright 
beads, 

To  dare  the  goal 

Of  my  imperious  soul,  — 
Still  guiding  them,  as  with  a  god's  control, 
Over  my  splendid,  shoulder  turning 

Mine  eyes,  in  giant  yearning, 
Upward,  my  Mother,  upward  still  to  thee 
I  gaze  for  power  and  love  and  immortality. 


THE  SNAKE  [to  Eve] 

Now  canst  thou  doubt  the  beauty  of  thy  dream 

ing? 

Now  canst  thou  doubt  the  duty  of  thy  deed  ? 
Eat  of  the  fruit,  O  Eve  !     Thou  art  redeeming 

The  race  of  Adam  to  their  latest  seed, 
For  Time  shall  prove  the  beauty  of  thy  dream 
ing. 

EVE  [taking  the  Apple  from  the  Snake] 

O  ye  Wise,  love  Beauty  !    All 
Ye  Strong,  revere  Her  ! 


SECOND    INTERLUDE 

THE  SISTINE  SPIRIT 

Ha !    dost  thou   shake  thy    slumber    off,  young 

titan  ? 

(Unconscious  child  no  more,  for  now  the  dawn 
Proclaims  the  awaking  world.)     Ah  !   dost  thou 

seize 

The  shadow  of  my  mantle,  and  in  mine  eyes 
Gaze  with  an  ecstasy  of  pain  and  power? 
Say,  dost  thou  feel  the  immitigable  blade, 
Which  sings  in  the  light  above  the  Tree  of  Knowl 
edge, 

Upscorch  the  loveless  impotence  within  thee, 
Ignite  thy  mind,  and  scorify  thy  heart  ? 
What !   dost  thou  reach  thy  hand  thyself  to  swing 

it? 

Arise  !     Go  forth  !  Youth  of  the  centuries, 
And   wield    thy   sword    in    prayer   to   thy   great 
Mother ! 


84 


THIRD   CANTO:    THE   BIRTH   OF   MAN 

CHORUS  OF  PRESENCES 

Eden  is  fallen ! 
Man  is  arisen ! 

Like  a  knighted  warrior,  behold  him  arise. 
Like  a  waker  from  slumber, 
Like  a  captive  from  prison, 
He  bursts  from  the  bondage  of  Paradise ! 
For  the  Almighty's  stroke 
Has  severed  the  yoke 
Of  the  beast's  contentment  and  earthward  eyes. 

SONG  OF  THE  EXPELLING  ANGEL 

Mine  is  the  stroke  Promethean  ! 

The  infinite  love  that  burns  like  ire, 

The  impregnating  might,  the  conceiving  fire, 

And  the  pang  that  delivers  the  Birth  of  Man. 

I  am  the  life,  whose  garment  is  Death, 

And  Truth  like  a  lining  within  is  laid, 

And   him  who   seeks   me   I   singe  with   my 

blade, 

But  he  weareth  the  garment  and  triumpheth. 
85 


86  THE   SISTINE    EVE 

Adam,  depart !    My  sword's  flame,  like  a  torch's, 
Reveals      thy      kingdom      consumed      and 

wrecked, 

But  the  pain  that  revolts  in  thine  intellect 
Is    the    love    that    heals    in    the    lightning    that 
scorches. 

CHORUS  OF  PRESENCES 

Eden  is  fallen  ! 

Man  is  arisen ! 

He  is  burst  from  the  prison 
Of  Paradise ! 

ADAM 

Eve,  crouch  more  close  to  me.     I  will  protect  thee. 
The  hailing  fire  my  sense  like  anguish  sears. 
The  goal  is  far  —  but  O  !  how  glorious, 
For  through  the  night  thine  eyes  are  still  the  stars. 


PART  TWO 

POEMS   LYRICAL   AND   DESCRIPTIVE 


GROUP  I 


Two    song-birds    build    their    nests    within    my 
brain, 

Arid  hatch  strange  broods,  each  to  his  own  re 
frain  ; 
Ever  one  sings :   "  To-morrow, 

Sweet  Joy  !"     The  other:  "Yesterday,  sweet  sor 
row!" 


91 


FRAIL  Sleep,  that  blowest  by  fresh  banks 

Of  quiet,  crystal  pools,  beside  whose  brink 
The  varicolored  dreams,  like  cattle,  come  to 
drink, 

Cool  Sleep,  thy  reeds,  in  solemn  ranks, 

That  murmur  peace   to   me    by  midnight's 

streams, 

At  dawn  I  pluck,  and  dayward  pipe  my  flock 
of  dreams. 


THE  ARC   LIGHT 

I  WATCHED  an  arc  light  under  wind-stirr'd  trees 

Sleep    on    the    pale  green    grass,  in    tender 
swoon, 

And   held   my  breath   thinking   the   pensive 

moon 

Was  telling  there  her  lucent  rosaries. 
Light  of  the  Arts  !   no  more  by  lonely  seas 

Wandering  in  naked  glory  art  thou  met; 

From  out  our  heaven  Homer's  moon  has  set, 
That  lit  the  love-bowers  of  the  Dryades. 

Yet   'neath   the   conscious   vestments   Time   has 
wrought, 

The  simple  Graces  love  and  act  the  same; 
And  through  the  subtle  wires  of  labored  thought 

The  world  is  lit  by  heaven's  divinest  flame, 
Till,  in  the  sordid  midnight  of  the  poor, 
The  lamp  of  Zeus  illumes  a  workman's  door. 


SHE  stood  before  a  florist's  window-pane. 

Roses  peered  forth  and  they  were  envious 
pale, 

And  lilies,  white  as  cloistered  virgin's  veil, 
Vied  with  the  deep  carnations  but  in  vain. 
If  at  her  beauty's  heart  a  lethal  stain 

Were  hid,  to  beauty's  face  it  told  no  tale. 

"Cut   flowers    [so   she   read    the    sign]   for 

sale;" 
Half  to  herself  she  murmured  it  again. 

One  stopped  within  the  sharp,  electric  light, 
And  threw  his  shadow  on  her  and  his  eyes, 
Nor  read  those  sad  concealed  analogies 

Of  which  her  gorgeous,  answering  look 
was  full. 

"  Cut  flowers,"  and  to-morrow  they  shall  blight, 
But  till  to-morrow,  God  !  how  beautiful. 


94 


I  DREAMED  a  thousand  ages,  armed  with  flint 
And  bone  and  bronze,  were  toiling  in  a  mint, 

And  sculptured  rude  to  see 
On  each  rough  coin  they  struck  was  "Poesie." 

And  now,  in  that  same  hall,  a  mighty  wheel, 
Revolved  incessant  by  a  mob  in  steel, 

Showers  the  round  gold  thence 
Stamped    with    the    goddess's    head    "Conven 
ience." 


95 


LEISURE,  kind  Leisure,  I  require ! 

Leisure,  whose  snood 

Of  quiethood 
Conceals  shy  dreams  of  sage  desire: 

For  Leisure,  only  Leisure, 
Ripens  young  thought  and  brings  work  pleasure. 

Dull  toil  is  but  a  drudge  at  best; 

Sloth  has  no  profit, 

Sleep  —  still  less  of  it ; 
But  idle  brains  are  busiest 

While  Leisure,  shyest  Leisure, 
Ripens  young  thought  and  brings  work  pleasure. 


96 


HER  eyes  are  casements  clear  as  dew 
For  her  kindness  to  look  through ; 
There,  behind  their  crystal,  stray 
Fairy  fancies  dressed  in  gray; 
Through  the  trellis'd  lashes,  till 
Slumber  draws  the  silken  blind, 
Her  quick  spirit  peeps  behind 
The  pane,  or  signals  from  the  sill. 


97 


IN   VENICE 

THE  Lady  of  the  Sunset, 

The  Bride  of  the  New  Moon, 
She  lifts  her  liquid  garments 

About  her  silvery  shoon, 
And  as  she  sways  their  draperies 

The  dim  stars  interwoven 
In  their  dark  fabric  swing  and  ripple 

Like  winds  by  music  cloven. 

The  Princess  of  the  Olden  Isles, 

The  Enamored  of  the  Sea, 
She  has  glided  from  her  throne  of  stars 

And  courtesied,  Love,  to  thee: 
Along  her  smooth  and  turquoise  halls 

She  glides,  and  kneels  with  me 
Before  thy  shrine,  with  clasped  hands, 

And  bows  and  prays  to  thee ! 


98 


A    MATINADE 

RISE,  sweet  signora  of  the  sigh ! 

The  gondola  is  gliding  by. 

The  queenly  Adriatic  Sea 

Shall  hold  her  mirror,  dear,  for  thee, 

Apollo  be  thy  slave,  to  twine 

A  fillet  for  those  locks  of  thine, 

And  hire  the  moonlight  from  thine  eyes 

To  cool  the  day-star  of  his  skies. 

So  lady  dear,  be  fleet ! 

And  from  your  dreamy  sighs, 
Signora  mine,  signora  sweet, 
Arise ! 


99 


TO   A    GONDOLA 

SWAN  of  the  silver  beak  and  sable  breast, 
Stemming  the  night, 

Art  thou  a  bird  of  song,  or  bark  of  quest, 
Or  heaven-wandered  sprite, 
That  in  the  still  moonlight 

Makest  in  palace  courts  thy  liquid  nest? 

If  bird  thou  be,  what  swaying  skies  are  these, 
Between  two  heavens, 

That  lap  thee  in  their  starry  lucencies, 

Whilst  thou  toward  unseen  havens, 
With  plumage  like  the  raven's 

Glidest  with  pinions  closed  against  the  breeze  ? 

If  bark  thou  be,  what  fairy  argosies 

Leadest  thou  on  ? 
What  amber  port  of  all  the  sunset's  seas 

Lures  thee  with  music  yon  ? 

What  fetes  of  Oberon, 

Tinkling  husht  joys,  twinkling  tranquillities  ? 
100 


TO   A   GONDOLA  101 

A  sprite  thou  art  —  a  spirit  without  peer ! 
A  lover's  thought 

Thou  art,  and  Fancy  is  thy  gondolier, 
Whose  gliding  vision,  fraught 
With  song  and  love,  gleams  but 

An  instant  in  life's  dark,  only  to  disappear. 


IN   THE   STILL   CAMPAGNA." 

IN  the  still  campagna, 
When  no  birds  were  singing, 
'Mid  the  undulating 
Little  hills  and  hollows 
Pied  with  starred  mosaic, 
There  I  stopped  and  pondered. 


Right  against  the  azure 
Of  the  Alban  mountains, 
Rose  an  overwhelming 
Gaunt  and  eyeless  ruin: 
Eyeless,  but  the  sockets 
Stared  on  me  in  sadness. 

Loneliness  then  clutched  me 
Like  a  chill  at  noonday; 
Terrors  of  old  Caesars 
Taught  me  a  new  heartache 
Where  those  walls  still  on  me 
Stared  with  a  stark  blindness. 

"  How  !  old  earthy  phantom, 
Hast  thou,  then,  no  solace 
102 


IN   THE   STILL   CAMPAGNA."         103 

When  the  burning  sunbeam 
Chars  thy  skull  like  Cyclops'  ? 
None  ?     No  inner  vision, 
Thoughts  that  hymn  like  Homer's  ?  " 

Hardly  had  I  ceased  when 
Sudden  from  the  knollside, 
Or  perhaps  from  heaven, 
Through  that  hollow,  lidless 
Ruin  flying,  rose  a 
Flock  of  songbirds,  singing. 


Love,  you  are  my  nature ! 
When  by  lonely  breedings 
Long  on  mortal  anguish 
I  stand  blinded,  swift  and 
Sweet  from  lyric  fountains, 
Dart  then  through  my  sadness 
Songbirds  of  your  soul ! 


EARLY   MAY   IN   NEW   ENGLAND 

STRAWBERRY-FLOWER  and  violet 
Are  come,  but  the  wind  blows  coldly  yet ; 
And  robin's-egg  skies  brood  sunny  chill 
Where  hyacinth  summer  sleeps  under  the  hill 
And  the  frog  is  still. 

Applebloom  floats  on  the  warm  blue  river, 
But  white  shad-blossoms  ripple  and  shiver, 
And  purple-grackle  pipes  till  his  blithe  heart 

grieves, 

For  his  gladdest  songs,   through   the  little  elm- 
leaves, 
Are  but  make-believes. 


104 


EARLY  APRIL   IN  ENGLAND 

ACROSS  the  moist  beam  of  the  cloud-rimmed  sun, 

The  larks  run  up  in  ecstasies  of  Spring, 

And  little  feathered  flutes  of  melody, 

The  yellow-ammers,  pipe  along  the  hedges. 

The  sheep,  half  basking  in  the  golden  blaze, 
Half  shivering  in  the  gray,  engulfing  shadows, 
Browse  on  the  faint-green  hills ;  the  chilly  wind 
Ruffles  the  white  geese  on  the  rippled  pond. 


105 


SONG 

SPRING  is  Shakspere's  garden  !  - 
In  May,  to  the  lover's  mind, 
Every  rose  is  a  Rosalind 

And  every  wood  an  Arden. 

Hark!  "Phoebe!  Phoebe!  Phoebe!" 
Sylvius  !   Can  it  he  be  ? 


106 


HOLIDAY 

WHAT  is  so  free 

As  a  child  in  its  glee, 

Or  a  bird  on  the  tree ! 

A  jumping  boy 

Is  a  wave  of  joy ; 

Little  girls, 

That  gayly  pass 

With  flying  curls 

Across  the  grass, 

The  soul  unclog: 

And  oh   a  sight 

Of  rare  delight 

Is  a  running  shepherd  dog ! 


107 


THE    KATYDID 

THOU  husky  raven  of  the  insect  race, 

Who  hintest  —  hid  by  darkness  from  espial 

Of  some  poor  maid's  disgrace, 

Cease  this  asseveration  and  denial ! 

Whatever  the  black  blame,  will  it  abate  it 

Thus  to  incessant  rasp  and  iterate  it  ? 

If  Katy  did  the  dark  deed,  let  her  state  it. 


108 


THE    CRICKET 

HARK  to  the  fairy  linnet  — 
How  reticent  he  sings  ! 
Sings,  stops;   then,  in  a  minute, 
He'll  re-begin  it, 

Then  stop  again. 

The  sunset  is  his  dawn: 

When  day  is  over, 

He  pipes  a  delicate  strain 
Beneath  the  tiger-lilies,  by  the  lawn, 

Or,  from  the  top  boughs  of  the  tallest  clover, 
Outpours  his  Lilliputian  carollings. 


109 


AT  night,  I  prayed  for  sleep;   instead 
The  Muse  came,  rummaging  my  head 
For  rhymes.     Again  I  craved  the  dews 
Of  sleep ;  they  fell  —  upon  the  Muse. 


110 


WITH   A    ROSE 

TO    S.    A.    D. 
A  ROSE 

From  lovely  Rhodope's  remotest  time  — 

The  poets  chose 
To  instil  a  lovelier  meaning  in  their  rhyme. 

A  friend 
Is  subtler  than  a  poet.     Friendship  knows 

A  way  to  lend 
A  finer  fragrance  even  to  the  rose. 


Ill 


STANZAS 

TO  THE  BURNISHED  GRAIN  OF  AN  OLD-FASHIONED 
MAHOGANY   TABLE 

AURORAL  tempest  on  an  auburn  sea, 

Scourged  by  the  spectres  of  unmoving  wind, 
Still  storm,  dumb  gale,  immured  immensity, 
Dark  thunderer  upon  the  shores  of  mind, 
Spirit  of  oceans  !  —  here  thou  art  confined 
In  beauty  and  in  silence.     Rive  thy  locks 

Tumultuous,  till  thy  bronze  waves  foam  in 
glory, 

Writhe  on  till  thou  art  hoary, 
The  hush-air'd  chamber  shall  not  feel  thy  shocks, 
Nor  thy  smooth  polished  shore  thereby  be  under 
mined. 

Wild  harrier  of  the  mad  atmospheres, 

Whose  looks  are  lightnings,  who  hath  cap 
tured  thee 

And  poured  in  wood  this  sunny  wrath  of  tears  ? 
Who  else  but  mirror-cinctured  Nature,  she 
That  lurks  by  rivers  and  the  placid  sea 
112 


STANZAS  113 

To  prison-in  the  silent-roaring  thunders 

With  pomp  pictorial.     In  such  still  state 

Art  thou  incarcerate, 

And  Time,  whose  sitting  worketh  mellow  won 
ders, 
Thy  jailer  sits,  in  cell  of  dark  mahogany. 

The  terrors  of  the  guessed  invisible 

Are  worse  than  seen  calamities;   the  eye 
Beholds  not  here  the  famine- screeching  gull, 

The   ear  knows   not  the  night-wreck'd  sea 
man's  cry, 

Yet  may  the  fancy  hear  his  monody 
Sung  by  the  mermaids  of  those  amber  deeps, 

Beneath    whose    burnished    and    congealed 
waves 

A  lurid  dragon  raves, 

Whose  dropping  eye  with  ruddy  tinctures  steeps 
That  marvel-teeming  world  in  strange  mortality. 

Tempestuous  sea,  dash  on  !     Roar  on,  dim  tides, 
That   come,  or   go,  or  stay,  —  we    are    not 

stirred ; 
The  dark-descending  simoon  o'er  thee  glides, 

But  to  the  wooden'd  sense  it   moans  are  surd. 
Even  while  we  gaze,  our  inward  eyes  —  grown 
blurr'd,  — 


114  STANZAS 

Behold  thee  for  illusion,  that  reproves 

Our  reason's  folly,  till  we  ask:   why  should 

We  sympathize  with  wood  ? 
Yea,  thou  art  like  a  passionate  heart  that  loves : 
Wildly  it  beats  upon  the  world,  but  is  not  heard. 


SUNSET 

BEHOLD  where  Night  clutches  the  cup  of  heaven 
And  quaffs  the  beauty  of  the  world  away ! 
Lo,  his  first  draught  is  all  of  dazzling  day; 

The  next  he  fills  with  the  red  wine  of  even 

And  drinks ;  then  of  the  twilight's  amber,  seven 
Deep  liquid  hues,  seven  times,  superb  in  ray, 
He  fills — and  drinks;  the  last,  a  mead  pale- 
gray 

Leaves   the   black   beaker  gemmed    with   starry 
levin. 

Even  so  does  Time  quaff  our  mortality ! 

First,  of  the  effervescing  blood  and  blush 
Of  virgin  years,  then  of  maturity 

The  deeper  glow,  then  of  the  pallid  hush 
Where  only  the  eyes  still  glitter,  till  even  they  — 
After  a  pause  —  melt  in  immenser  day. 


115 


FOR   F.    J.    L. 

THE  flower  shall  fade,  not  the  spirit 
Which  gave  to  it  being; 

That  has  finer  forms  to  inherit 
Beyond  our  mere  seeing. 

Oh,  why  does  the  lily  seem  fair? 

For  seeing?   for  smelling? 
Or  is  it  that  Ariel  there 

Has  found  him  a  dwelling? 

Stale  flowers  for  me  shall  not  sere, 
If  you  do  but  give  them ; 

Slight  thoughts  for  me  shall  be  dear, 
If  you  but  conceive  them. 


116 


TO    M.    AND    M.    L. 

I  CANNOT  think  good-by; 

How  can  I  say  it? 
My  heart's  debt  lies  too  nigh 

For  words  to  pay  it. 

Bright  cloud,  that  flingest  wide 
The  heaven's  wonder, 

Dark  cloud,  and  dim  hillside, 
And  far-voiced  thunder, 

Soft  breeze,  that  ringest  clear 
The  sweet  day's  knell, 

Sad  bird,  that  singest  near,  — 
Speak  my  farewell ! 


117 


BALLAD 


YOUNG  rider  and  steed  they  dash  on  through  the 

dusk, 
And  the  fog  gathers  gray  as  the  mould  on  the 

husk, 

And  the  froth  on  the  flank  is  like  foam  on  the  flood 
Where  the  brown  stream  pours  panting  through 
dark  underwood. 

"But  what  of  the  night,  love,  and  what  of  the 

miles, 
When  the  morning  shall  break  in  my  true  love's 

own  smiles  ? 
Oh,  I'd  ride  the  white  charger  that  neighs  from  the 

sea 
To  the  edge  of  the  world,  if  she  waited  for  me  ! " 

Dim  head  in  the  doorway  it  -hears  him  dash  by, 
And   the  cold   smile  curls  keen,   and   the  laugh 

lights  the  eye: 

118 


BALLAD  119 

"Ye'll  hae  off  wi'  your  league-boots  and  love  by 

the  sea 
When  your  bonny  hair's  white  and  ye're  wiser 

like  me." 


II 


The  flare's  in  the  chimney,  the  song's  on  the 

crane, 
And   the  maiden   sits  watching    the  fog   on   the 

pane, 

And  the  hot  glowing  hearthlight  is  cosey  and  dry, 
But  the  warm  light  that's  tender's  the  light  in  her 

eye. 

"Nay,  granny,  I'll  just  take  a  step  from  the  sill, 
For  the  twilight  is  cold,  and  the  mist  hides  the 

hill, 
And  fain  would  I  warm  the  whole  world  with  my 

heart 
To  comfort  thee  —  O  my  dear  love  —  where  thou 

art!" 

"  Ye've  let  the  winds  in,  lass ;  the  candle  is  out ! 
Now  God  send  ye  wisdom,  whate'er  ye're  about ! 
The  parritch  is  cold,  lass,  that  erst  was  sae  hot: 
When  ye're  older  ye'll  be  a  deal  wiser,  I  wot ! " 


120  BALLAD 

III 

There's  a  leap  in  the  mist;  there's  a  voice  in  the 

night ; 

There's  a  step  that  is  heavy  with  one  that  is  light : 
"  Ah,  love,  dear,  is  wisdom,  and  wisdom  is  this : 
The  seals  of  your  sages  —  they  melt  with  a  kiss  !" 


EVEN  as  an  infant  fingers  the  crisp  sheet 
And  crumples  it,  the  more  his  milk  is  sweet, 
So  we,  with  restive  hands,  in  happy  sleep 
Enact  vague  deeds  on  Nature's  cover-slip. 


121 


A    CHILD 

BRIEF  Revelation  of  enduring  Truth, 

Frail  snowflake  in  the  silent  storm  of  God, 

Scarce  lighting  on  the  swallow-wing  of  youth 
Ere  wafting  down  to  dew  the  pregnant  sod, 

Infant !   or  Angel  else  —  thine  innocence 

Is  as  a  crystal,  wherethrough  men  may  see 

The  seedling's  might,  the  star's  magnificence, 
And  of  our  common  day  the  mystery. 

More,  it  enkindles  might;  and  like  the  pure 
Polished  convex  of  a  bright  burning-glass. 

Binds  the  wild  hues  and  lightnings,  which  perdure 
In  love  as  heaven,  and  in  concentric  mass 

Ignites  by  them  the  unfeeling  dross  of  nature 
To  conflagrations  heavenly  in  stature. 


122 


BABY    PANTOMIME 

SERENE,  he  sits  on  other  shores 

Than  ours:   with  wide,  unconscious  lands 
He  holds  strange  speech,  or,  silent,  pores 

On  denizens  of  viewless  strands; 
On  tablets  of  the  air  weird  scores 

He  writes,  and  makes,  with  eager  hands, 
As  strange  erasements ;  then,  two-fisted,  stores 

An  elfin  hour-glass  with  heavenly  sands. 


123 


THE   FIRST  TOOTH 

DEAR  babe,  that  this  should  be  !     Whence  should 

this  come  ?  — 

This  horny  'scutcheon  of  an  eld  orang, 
Where  through  the  tender  coral  of  thy  gum 

The    wee,  sly  beast  has  peeped   his   prying 
fang: 

Colossal  meditation  !     Can  this  be 

The  cropping  of  that   seed   which  Cadmus 

sowed  ? 
Or  that  gaunt  emblem  of  mortality 

Under  the  sickle,  on  our  earth-abode  ? 

Forbid  it,  heaven  !     'Tis  but  the  nursling  thorn 
That  nestles  near  the  bloom  of  every  rose, 

The  curling  holly-leafs  keen-sharded  horn, 

The  stubborn  shield  of  beauty's  frail  repose, 

The  official  mace  of  angels :   even  as  the  Lord 
Guarded  the  grace  of  Eden  with  a  sword  ! 


124 


THE   DESERTED   STEEDS 

MIDWAY  the  silent  parlor  plain 

The  iron  horses  stand,  nor  turn, 

But  like  the  yoke  that  Putnam  left, 

Await,  mid-field,  their  lord's  return. 

There  they  have  stood  since  yestereve  — 

Nor  champed,  nor  broke  their  traces  —  till 

The  moon  looked  in  the  western  blind, 
Till  morn  peeped  o'er  the  eastern  sill. 

Then  strides  their  lord  to  field  again 

To  crack  his  whip  and  drive  his  teams, 

Back  from  the  far  campaigns  of  sleep, 
The  baby  Bunker  Hill  of  dreams. 


125 


THE   CHILD    AND    SLEEP 

f 
THIS  baby  brow,  like  a  smooth  handkerchief, 

Has  in  the  night  been  ironed  white  and  even, 
And  all  these  little  limbs,  beyond  belief, 

Are   like   sweet   garments,   fresh    prepared    in 
heaven 

To  clothe  the  littlest  angel  loved  by  Mary. 

Who  was  it  smoothed  these  rose-habiliments 
Of  childhood  ?  —  Sleep,  a  gentle  nurse,  and  fairy, 

Who  folds  the  crumplings  of  our  discontents, 

And  lines  Day's  chest  with  viewless  lavender 
To  sweeten  all  the  vestments  of  our  care. 

All  Nature's  tired  children  turn  to  her 
For  renovation ;  for  she  can  repair 

The  outworn  body,  from  her  secret  scrip, 

And  minds  outworn  seek  her  physicianship. 


126 


SUMMER  SONG 

THE  cricket  is  chirring, 

The  tree-toad  is  purring, 
The  busy  frog  pipes, 

The  beetle  is  whirring, 

And  curled  in  his  nest, 
'Mid  the  night  dew  of  rest, 

My  wee  one  is  stirring. 

Then  quick,  Fairy  Hummer, 

Lull  my  newcomer 
Rosy  and  deep 
In  sleep,  soft  sleep, 

9 Mid  the  sweets  of  the  summer. 

The  stars  at  bo-peeping 
Like  white  lambs  are  leaping 

On  the  hills  of  the  dark 
In  the  Good  Shepherd's  keeping: 

Their  wool  is  like  silk, 

And  they  pour  their  bright  milk 
For  my  little  one's  sleeping. 
127 


128  SUMMER   SONG 

Then  hush,  Fairy  Hummer! 

Kiss  my  newcomer, 

And  cradle  him  deep 
In  sleep,  soft  sleep, 

9 Mid  the  sweets  of  the  summer. 


FIRE  WORSHIP 

A  POPPY,  all  on  fire  with  beauty's  beams, 

Outburned  the  glamour  of  the  liquid  bar 
Of  sunlight  where  it  swam,  diffusing  far 

The  brilliance  of  its  spiritual  streams: 

A  chalice,  spilled  on  some  blood-stained  trireme's 
Prow,  in  libation  to  the  sanguine  star, 
The  ritual  cup  of  dread  Dyauspitar, 

Brimmed  with  the  wine  of  its  own  opiate  dreams. 

Before  that  shrine,  in  mute  idolatry,  — 

A  little  Gangean  god,  an  orient 

Cupid,    rose-flushed    with     infant    wonder 
ment  — 

The  baby  gazed,  and  reached  in  rhapsody 
His  small,  translucent  hands,  while  silently 

From  flower  to  face  a  rubiate  nimbus  went. 


129 


PLASTIC  Fancies,  form  a  mould: 

Fill  it,  Heart,  with  burning  gold : 
Break  it,  Love,  when  life  is  cold. 

When  the  shard  is  struck  away, 

There  shall  stand  —  where  once  was  clay 
Beauty,  till  the  Judgment-day ! 


130 


THE    UNSAID 

THE  forms  sublime,  the  moods  elate, 
That  rise  within  the  poet's  reach, 

May  never  transubstantiate 

Their  glowing  ardors  into  speech. 

Yet  sweet  —  although  we  fail  in  words  — 
To  feel  the  changed,  creative  light 

That  gleams  on  nature's  fields  and  herds, 
Cast  by  a  sun  of  inner  sight, 

While  burst  upon  the  exultant  brain 
Visions  of  grandeur  and  of  grace. 

He  gazes  more  serene  on  men 

Who  looks  the  Muses  in  the  face 


131 


I  WATCHED  a  drama,  sitting  in  the  wings, 
And  heard  the  plaudits  of  eternal  things : 

But  when  the  Prompter  bawled 
My  name,  I  failed  my  cue  —  nor  was  recalled. 


132 


ALL  joys,  familiar  and  divine, 
All  satisfactions  fail,  save  thine, 

Contemplation ! 
Ambitions  climb  and  fall; 
Love,  and  Hope,  his  thrall, 
Pity,  and  our  noblest  passions  pall; 
Yea,  one  and  all, 
Each  one. 

Not  Venus,  wreathed  with  bloom  and  vine, 
Glows  with  rapture  like  to  thine  — 

Meditation ! 
The  rose  can  never  be 
Sweet  as  our  revery 
About  her.     Lord,  each  deity 
Bows  down  to  thee, 
Each  one. 


133 


WHEN  subtle  passion  makes  me  slave 

And  leads  me,  in  her  golden  chain, 
Where  dazzling  legions  of  the  grave 

Troop  in  her  spurious  beauty's  train, 
Poetry,  make  then  thy  sign  — 
Lord  and  Sovereign  divine ! 

The  beast  wears  still  his  tusk  and  snout; 

Man  merely  has  dispensed  with  these. 
The  satyr  leeringly  looks  out 

Behind  the  mask  of  Socrates; 

Thou  only  art  of  heavenly  line, 
Lord  and  Sovereign  divine ! 

When,  therefore,  orient-vestured  Sin 
Holds  her  usurping  court  in  me, 
Set  thy  white  torch  aflame  within 
Her  palace  walls,  O  Poetry, 

And  on  their  ashes  build  thy  shrine, 
Lord  and  Sovereign  divine ! 


134 


THE    SLINGER 


A  BOY,  who  stoops  upon  a  green  hillside, 
Where  he  has  climbed,  exhilarant  and  flushed, 
And   picks    up    a  flat    stone,    shell-shaped    and 

smooth  — 

A  piece  of  splitty  slate,  or  curved  feldspar  — 
Scanned  with  the  relish  of  an  expert  eye, 
And  fits  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
And  sways  his  body  for  the  joyous  fling  — 
How  wondrously  he  shoots  it  through  the  air ! 
How  pent  with  song  it  soars  into  the  blue 
Stored  with  the  frenzy  of  his  boyish  whim, 
Skims  the  sunk  summit  of  the  tallest  pine, 
Rounds,  dips,  tacks,  turns,  then,  twirling,  soars 

again, 

Catching  the  sunlight  like  a  swallow's  wing; 
Then,  like  the  last  dip  of  a  'cellist's  bow, 
Or  a  ground-sparrow,  slacking  to  its  nest, 
Slants  the  long  slope,  and  dives  in  to  the  vale. 
135 


\ 
\ 


136  THE    SLINGER 

Not  more  inspired  the  pebble  David  slung ! 
A  stone,  a  lump,  a  clot  of  hardened  loam, 
Yet,  in  an  instant's  metamorphosis, 
It  leaps  to  beauty  like  a  work  of  God  — 
A  lyric  thing,  a  fellow  of  the  lark, 
Breathing  a  moment's  immortality  — 
Then  sinks  to  silence  and  the  loam  it  left. 

II 

Whose  was  the  hand  which  flung  me  into  breath  ? 
Whose  was  the  whim  or  purpose  of  that  deed  ?  — 
Flung  in  the  dizzy  zenith  of  clear  mind, 
Whirled  in  the  cloudy  vortex  of  dark  will, 
On,  on  —  projectile  of  a  deathless  youth, 
Poised  with  his  sling  upon  the  brow  of  heaven  — 
Skimming,  and  skimmed  by  other  whizzing  clay, 
Skipped  in  the  sun  to  caper  caracoles, 
What  is  of  man  the  ultimate  Goliath, 
Giant  of  111,  whom  he  must  batter  down 
That  Saul  the  Right  may  reign  ?     What  is  man's 

goal? 

Or  —  mindful  of  the  grim  analogy  — 
What  stricken  pine,  forgotten  in  the  forest 
That  skirts  the  valley  underneath  Time's  hill, 
Shall  mark  his  accidental  tumbling-tomb  ? 


LIFE   SAID   TO   DEATH 

LIFE  said  to  Death:  'Brother, 
Who  was  our  mother  ? 
Did  not  One  who  bore  us 
Make  the  world  for  us: 
Were  we  not  twin-born  ? 
What  hast  thou,  then,  inborn 
Lordlier,  vaster, 
That  thou  playest  master? 
By  what  right  or  merit 
Dost  thou  inherit 
Earth's  beautiful  riches? 

Answer  me :   Which  is 

The  world's  more  deserving  — 

The  served,  or  the  serving? 

Thou  art  a  depender 

On  me,  yet  a  spender 

Of  all  my  dear  earnings, 

Rhapsodies,  yearnings. 

I  build,  thou  breakest; 
I  bring,  and  thou  takest; 
I  save,  thou  lavishest; 
I  love,  and  thou  ravishest. 
137 


138  LIFE   SAID   TO   DEATH 

Deaf  and  disdainful, 
Thou  leavest  me  baneful  — 
Curst  all  I  care  for. 
Answer  me:  Wherefore? 

O,  say  that  thy  spendings 
Are  used  in  befriendings ; 
That  'neath  barbarity 
Thou  workest  in  charity, 
To  joy  givest  feeling, 
And  a  quick  healing 
To  pain's  slow  cancer. 
O,  loosen  the  tied  knot 
Of  silence,  and  answer !  — ' 

But  Death  replied  not. 


OLD  Age,  the  irrigator, 

Digs  our  bosoms  straighter, 

More  workable  and  deeper  still 

To  turn  the  ever-running  mill 

Of  nights  and  days.     He  makes  a  trough 

To  drain  our  passions  off, 

That  used  so  beautiful  to  lie 

Variegated  to  the  sky, 

On  waste  moorlands  of  the  heart  — 

Haunts  of  idleness,  and  art 

Still  half-dreaming.     All  their  piedness, 

Rank  and  wild  and  shallow  wideness, 

Desultory  splendors,  he 

Straightens  conscientiously 

To  a  practicable  sluice 

Meant  for  workaday,  plain  use. 

All  the  mists  of  early  dawn, 

Twilit  marshes,  being  gone 

With  their  glamour,  and  their  stench, 

There  is  left  —  a  narrow  trench. 


139 


As  children  fling  bright  silver  in  the  sea 
To  watch  it  shine  and  sink  there,  so  do  we 

Our  treasures  of  wrought  rhyme 
And  marble  toss  amid  the  surge  of  time. 


140 


GROUP  II 


CHARLES   ELIOT   NORTON 

OUT  of  the  '  obscure  wood '  and  ominous  way 
Which  are  our  life,  to  that  obscurer  sea 
Whose    margin    glooms    and    gleams    alter 
nately 

With  storm  and  splendor  of  the  shrouded  spray  — 

He  has  departed.     Our  familiar  day, 

His  elm-hushed,  ivied  walks,  no  more  shall 

see 
That  radiant  smile  of  austere  courtesy: 

On  Shady  Hill  the  mist  hangs  cold  and  gray. 

He  has  departed  hence,  but  not  alone: 

Still    in   his   steps,   where   golden    discourse 

burns, 
To  Virgil  now  he  speaks,  and  now  he  turns 

Toward  Allighieri  in  calm  undertone, 

Holding  with  modest  tact  his  path  between 
The  Mantuan  and  the  mighty  Florentine. 


143 


FRANCIS    JAMES    CHILD 

How  fain  we  conjure  back  his  face  !     How  fain 
As,  bowed  with  musings  long  on  elvish  lore, 
He   clutched   his   satchel  at  the  class-room 
door 

And  shot  the  quick  "  Good-morning,  gentlemen," 

From  under  the  bronze  curls,  and  entered.     Then 
For  us  that  hour  of  quaint  illusion  wore 
Such  spell  as  when,  beside  the  Breton  shore, 

The  wizard  clerk  astounded  Dorigen. 

For  we  beheld  the  nine-and -twenty  ride 

Through  those  dim  aisles  their  deathless  pil 
grimage, 

Lady  and  monk  and  rascal  laugh  and  chide, 
Living  and  loving  on  the  enchanted  page, 

Whilst,  half  apart,  there  murmured  side  by  side 
The  master-poet  and  the  scholar-mage. 


144 


TO    GEORGE    PIERCE    BAKER 

THE   ghosts   of   Praise-God    Barebones   and   his 
clan 

Still  walk,  and  with  their  old  acerbity 

Infect  us;   even  the  University 
Is  haunted  still,  and  the  sparse  Puritan, 
Turned  Prospero,  has  made  a  Caliban 

Of  human  passion,  and  wild  Poesie 

Pinched  in  an  oak  to  starve,  and  Mimicry 
And  all  her  kindred  Muses  put  to  ban. 

Yet  not  so  now  at  Harvard ;   there  betakes 

Him  now  the  scholar-player,  with  his  Muse 
(That  deathless  wench,  the  Mermaid)   and 
renews 

His  vows,  and  breaks  his  fast,  and   is 
restored 
By  our  own  Baker.  —  May  the  loaves  he  bakes 

Soon  pile  a  feast  at  Master  Shakspere's 
board  ! 


145 


TO    WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

MOODY,  our  time  is  glad  of  you ;  'tis  given 
(After  exotic,  ineffectual  blows) 
For  you,  a  poet,  with  sure  blade  of  prose 

Keen  from  the  artist's  scabbard,  to  have  riven 

Our  specious  theatre  from  its  roof-beam  even 
Unto  the  pit  of  smugness,  to  disclose 
The  emancipated  desert's  wild  repose  — 

The  new-world  gladness  of  our  native  heaven. 

Henceforth  we  cannot  be  the  same;   for  us 
Americans,  because  of  you,  the  tide 

Dramatic  turns  to  seek  its  heritage 
Splendidly  homeward  to  ourselves;    our 
stage 
Is  cleft:   between  its  pusillanimous 

And  daring  goals  stands  now  the  Great  Divide. 


146 


TO    THE    SAME,    AFTER    SEVERE    ILL 
NESS 

Now  that  you  are  come  up  from  the  hush  vale 
Whose  crumbling  verge  hugs  close  the  dread- 
named  stream, 

And  we,  for  whom  your  sojourn  there  did 
seem 

A  time  intolerable,  may  inhale 

Glad  breath  to  greet  you  on  the  old  firm  trail 
Of  health  again,  still  that  suspense  extreme 
Pervades  our  deep  thanksgiving,  like  a  dream 

Of  Him  whose  thin  hand  felt  the  sanguine  nail. 

For  not  alone  the  sentient  personal 

Pang  that  was  spared  compels  our  gratitude, 
But  that  contagious   loss  which  would 
have  spread, 
Unknown,  to  those  who  knew  you  not,  through 

all 

The  after-time;    but  now,   that  dread  sub 
dued, 

With  victory  life  girds  you,  garlanded. 
147 


TO    GEORGE    GREY   BARNARD 

HEWER  of  visions  from  our  human  clay, 

Hewer  of  man's  strong  soul  in  sentient  stone, 
Of  maiden  limbs,  like  breath  of  flowers  new- 
blown, 

Of  mighty  loins,  girded  in  giant  fray, 

Of  hearts  that  wrestle,  vanquish,  fall  and  pray  — 
Hail  to  you,  dauntless  Hewer  !    Not  alone 
Your  arm  is  raised   to  shape  the  vast  un 
known  : 

A  nation's  sinews  hold  that  arm  in  sway. 

Though  from  Carraran  hills,  by  alien  hands, 
Those  forms  of  plastic  vision  are  unfurled, 

Yet  in  their  glowing,  marble  chastities 
America  in  naked  splendor  stands 

Inviolate,  and  looms  across  the  world  — 
Labor's  impassioned  apotheosis. 


148 


TO   AUGUSTUS   FRANZEN ' 

HAD  poet  Geoffrey  been  a  painter  then 

In  Richard's   days,   he  would   have   painted 

true, 
Healthful  and  bold  and  beautiful,  like  you 

Franzen,  large-souled,  sure-handed.     Had  Fran 
zen, 

Painter  in  oils,  wielded  an  English  pen 
To-day  as  artist,  he  would  limn  anew 
Even  such  a  clear-eyed  Canterbury  view 

As  Chaucer  limned  of  nature  and  of  men. 

So,  when  I  watch,  anew,  my  little  son 

Take  breath  beneath  your  brush,  and  pout 
again 

His   arch   and   fresh-eyed   innocence,   I 
stand 
Silent,  and  take  your  hand  in  mine,  as  one 

Who,  in  Old  London,  or  Velasquez'  Spain, 
Held  in  his  own  a  living  master's  hand. 

1  With  a  copy  of  "The  Canterbury  Pilgrims." 


149 


TO    J.    E.    F. 

Is  this  our  common  world  of  weariness  — 

The  narrow  stream  we  fume  and  struggle  in  ? 

Soft  as  a  sleeping  ocean  and  serene 
The  quivering  city  slumbers,  measureless 
Under  the  moon :   the  roaring  paths  men  press 

By  day,  are  sweet  with  silences,  akin 

To  dying  murmurs  of  a  violin : 
Such  magic  has  the  moon  to  calm  and  bless. 

The   mind,   too,   has   its   moonlight,   which   can 

steep 
Time's  sordid  commonplace  in  harmony 

That  heals  pain  with  oblivion,  and  the 
scar 

Of  garish  strife  with  beauty,  and  the  deep 
Rebellions  of  the  soul  with  sympathy : 

Such  might  has  quiet  friendship's  mystic 
star. 


150 


THE    HILL-SPIRIT 

TO    R.    B. 

RIBBED  like  a  conch  and  ruddy  through  the  dark 
The  frail  wedge  of  his  horn-clear  tepee  glows 
Above  the  pasture-cliff,  warm  with  the  rose 

Light  of  its  own  live  heart :   outside  the  stark 

Grove  clinks  the  wampum  of  its  frozen  bark 
Against  the  starry  cold ;   a  shadow  shows 
Tall  in  the  tepee's  slit ;  then  in  the  snows 

Valeward  husht  moccasins  imprint  their  mark. 

Blithe  with  the  wonder  of  their  home  wood-fire 
The  hillside  children,  rapt  in  fairy  lore, 

Hark    suddenly    his     footstep :      giant- 
geared, 

He  stands  before  them ;  then  upon  the  floor 
Seated  beside  them,  like  an  immortal  sire, 

Laughs  —  with  one  great  hand  tangled 
in  his  beard. 


151 


TO   R.    E.    F. 

ARCH  twinklings  of  the  quaint  wood-smile  of  Pan, 
Far-trembling,    golden    lights    from    Jason's 

fleece, 
And  lyric  breathings  from  the  lutes  of  Greece, 

And  gentle  ardencies  from  old  Japan, 

With  whatsoever  blithe,  Arcadian, 

And  simply  wise  accord  with  such  as  these, 
Are  blent  in  you  to  one  true  Yankee  piece, 

Keen,  classic,  laughter-brewing,  Keatsian. 

By  forum,  Alp  and  oriental  fane 

(As    varied     climes    color    the    song-bird's 

wings) 
On  you  far  paths  and  fair  imaginings 

Have   traced   their   retrospects;    yet,    if 
there  be 

One  word  by  which  to  conjure  you  up  plain, 
That  fine  home-word  is  Hospitality. 


152 


TO   E.    H.    S. 

BRIGHT  in  the  dark  of  sleep  all  night  till  morn 
The  henchmen  dreams  about  my  bed  did  sit 
And  looked  on  me,  with  their  strange  torches 
lit; 

And  one  was  passionate,  and  one  was  lorn, 

And  one,  that  fingered  his  bronze  beard  in  scorn, 
Scowled  at  another's  smile  of  tranquil  wit ; 
And  all  were  dreams  of  heroes  yet  unwrit 

In  dramas  high,  and  pageants  yet  unborn. 

O  happy  knight !  immortal  retinue  ! 

What   may  we   not,  when   morning   breaks, 

achieve ! 
The  morning  breaks — ah,  pale  and  strengthless 

crew ! 

Who  now  shall  in  your  mighty  forms  believe  ? 
Dear  friend  and  host,  even  you  !     My  dreams 

I  leave, 
(Those  happy  dreams)  to  serve  and  honor  you. 


153 


GROUP  III 


FAIR  is  the  foreground  of  her  soul 
With  mirth  and  domesticity, 

And  vistas  far,  through  cottage  vines, 
Of  a  storm-lit,  pagan  sea. 

A  bluebird  nests  beneath  the  porch, 
A  hidden  song-sparrow,  hard-by, 

Sings  near  the  ground ;   but  overhead 
A  gull's  wing  glitters  high. 

Rose-fragrance  dreams  along  the  hedge, 
Wild  sea-tangs  drift  from  off  the  wave, 

And  girlish  trebles  sweetly  pierce 
The  eternal  ocean-stave. 


157 


MY  love  was  freshly  come  from  sea 
The  morning  she  first  greeted  me : 
The  salt  mist's  tang,  the  sunny  blow 
Had  tinged  her  cheeks  a  ripening  glow. 

She  bowed  to  me  with  all  the  ease 
Of  meadow-grasses  in  the  breeze, 
And  yet  her  look  seemed  far  away 
Amid  the  splendors  of  the  spray. 

Her  step  was  vigorous  and  free 

As  maiden's  in  the  Odyssey; 

And  when  she  laughed,  I  heard  the  tunes 

Of  rushes  in  the  windy  dunes. 

An  air  so  limitless,  an  eye 

So  virgin  in  its  royalty  — 

Hers  was  a  spirit  and  a  form 

That  took  my  inland  heart  by  storm. 

I  felt  an  impulse,  an  unrest, 
And  secret  tides  within  my  breast 
Flowed  up,  with  silent,  glad  control, 
And  drew  the  rivers  of  my  soul. 
158 


THE  soft  rains  are  falling 
On  wild  rose  and  vine; 

The  far  winds  are  calling 
To  foreland  and  pine; 

The  big  wave  is  rocking 
The  gull  on  its  breast; 

The  surges  are  knocking 
With  joyous  unrest; 

There's  a  spirit  in  the  sky,  love, 
That  pants  for  the  sea, 

But  the  heart  that  beats  nigh,  love, 
Beats  higher  for  thee  ! 


159 


SHE  was  a  child  of  February, 

Of  tree-top  gray  and  smother'd  stream, 
Of  cedar  and  the  marsh  rosemary, 

Of  snowbird  and  the  sunset's  dream. 

A  frozen  brook  that,  April-eyed, 

Sings  soft  beneath  its  silver  fretting, 

Her  lyric  spirit  soon  belied 

The  ice  of  her  New  England  setting; 

Till  on  a  day  when  sudden  thaw 

Rent  all  her  snowy  chains  asunder, 

The  impassioned  sun  beheld  with  awe 
Her  heart  of  deep  Italian  wonder. 

Still  Nature  has  described  her  best, 
Veiled  in  those  February  skies, 
With  summer  singing  in  her  breast, 
And  April  laughing  in  her  eyes. 


160 


I  HEARD  the  waves  exulting  in  their  power, 

Their  unpaced  leagues  of  dim  immensity, 
Their  splendors   and    their    thunders    and    their 
dower 

Of  heaven's  far  glory,  and  I  thought :  —  the 
sea, 

The  sea  is  mighty !     Yet,  O  Love,  to  me 
Who  sought  a  symbol,  meagre  was  that  might 

Which  was  encliffed  and  shored,  for  vaster  be 
The  tides  of  love;   not  beach  nor  beacon-light 
Marks  where  their  surges  clasp  the  misty  infinite. 


161 


MAID-MARINER 

THE  ragged  clouds  are  all  a-rout, 

And  the  white  gulls  reel  like  swallows, 
And  the  billowy  herds,  at  Triton's  shout, 

Plunge  snorting  down  the  hollows, 
And  my  heart  is  with  the  storms  a-stir 
For  Marian,  my  maid-mariner. 

The  spray  is  whiffed  by  the  sneezing  wind 

Where  the  dory's  prow  is  ducking, 
And  soughing  where  the  cliff  is  brined 

The  seaweed-cows  are  sucking, 
And  the  wild-duck  flocks  begin  to  whir, 
Marian,  maid-mariner! 

Then  come  with  me  to  the  green  salt  tides 

When  the  storms  have  slipt  their  traces, 
And  the  live  blood  vaults  in  our  glowing  sides, 

And  the  winds  flap  in  our  faces, 
And  hearken  to  my  heart's  harbinger, 
Marian,  maid-mariner! 

O,  if  the  world  were  all  a  bark, 

And  wishes  all  were  true,  love, 
With  one  blithe  maiden  I'd  embark  — 

Her  captain  and  her  crew,  love  — 
And  sail  the  world  away  with  her: 
My  Marian,  maid-mariner ! 
162 


OUT  of  the  drenched  and  leafless  night,  my  dear, 
Entering  to  you  —  like  hot-haste  March  I  feel, 

Who  bows  before  the  beauty  of  the  year, 

And  spurns   presumptuous  Winter  with  his 
heel. 


163 


MY  thoughts  are  like  pied  cattle  on  the  hills, 

Browsing  the  pale  green  slants,  through  silt 
ing  mist  , 
That  laps  the  verdant  uplands,  and  far  fills 

The  valleys  where  the   parted   woods  have 
kisst. 

Scarce  can  I  see  them  for  the  purpling  rain 

That  drives  across  the  pastures,  where  they 
loom 

Beyond  the  hedges  of  my  shrouded  brain, 
Herding  the  solemn  sunset  of  my  gloom. 

O  Fancy,  be  my  eager-lung' d  Boy-Blue, 
And  blow  upon  your  dewy  echo-horn 

A  blast  to  call  them  home  to  me  and  you 
Out  of  the  eerie  meads  and  magic  corn ; 

For  they  shall  yield  us  white  abundance  of 
Their  milk,  for  me  to  bring  unto  my  love. 


164 


WHEN  beauty  ripens  newly  in  old  sheaves, 
Wears  purple  'mid  the  vine's  cold  penury., 

And  hides  young  blushes  in  age-altered  leaves, 
I  take  one  more  excuse  to  think  of  thee, 

Conceiving  this :   the  harvest's  mellow  gold 

Shall  gleam,  though  faded  harvests  feed  the 
»     swine ; 

The  sheaf's  bright  glance  shall  shine  in  brandies 

old, 
The  dark  grape's  splendor  glisten  in  the  wine. 

So,  too,  when  thou  art  withered  from  the  earth, 
And  loveliness  no  habitation  finds 

In  thy  beloved  form,  yet  shall  thy  worth 

Still  glow  with  living  lustre  in  men's  minds. 

O  then  to  be  thy  vintager  I  ask, 

And  every  verse  of  mine  thy  beauty's  flask ! 


165 


WHEN  first  the  pussy-willow  shows 

Her  fairy  muffs  of  gray, 
While  still  amid  the  poplar  tree 
The  blithe,  familiar  chickadee 
His  morning  suet  gratis  gets,  — 
When  first  the  consternating  crows 
Break  on  the  winter-keen  repose 

Of  February  day 

Their  strident  cawings, 
Startling  with  Stygian  silhouettes 

The  virgin  snows 

To  wake,  and  with  faint  thawings, 

Like  speech  half-audible, 
Murmur  of  spring,  until  we  houslings  feel  — 
Or  dream  we  feel  —  the  breath 
Of  blowing  violets, 
That  start  where  the  old  oak-leaf  floats  to  death, 

At  such  a  time  — 
On  this  your  birthday  morning,  winter-weary, 

Once  more  the  stealing  rhyme 
Runs  up  within  my  heart,  to  greet  you,  dearie. 

For  now  through  all  of  nature  that  we  love 
A  vernal  change,  like  love's,  has  late  begun; 
166 


The  northing  sun 
That  nightly  from  Ascutney  shall  remove 

Farther  its  setting,  fills 
The  valley-chalice  of  the  Cornish  hills 
With  wine  of  warmer  splendors ;   by  woodways 

Those  spurting  flames  of  blue,  the  jays, 

Less  oft  the  eye  arid  ear  amaze, 

Mock  musical,  with  gong-like  throat, 

Ringing  the  red-wing'd  blackbird's  note; 

More  seldom  sounds  the  frosty  axe, 

And  by  the  rabbit-run 
Our  quaint  embroideries  of  snowshoe  tracks 

Grow  softly  blurred  and  charr'd 
On  their  south  edgings,  while  the  logging-bells 
Tinkle  less  coldly  through  the  hemlock  dells. 
Or  cease,  amid  snow-muffled  lumber-stacks, 
Where  sledges  come  to  "  Whoa  ! "  in  the  mill-yard. 

Therefore,  because  this  lovely  season  leaves, 

Like  all  else,  only  memory  to  take 

Joy  of  its  vestiges,  now  for  the  sake 

Of  fleet  delights  that  never  may  return, 

Watch,  dear,  with  me,  where,  'neath  the  dropping 

eaves 

The  iris-dewed  icicles  burn  and  burn, 
Till  beauty  on  our  minds  indelibly 
Shall  brand  her  image,  bright  with  mutability. 
167 


STEEP  ran  the  hill-road  out  of  the  wood: 
Lambent,  below  us 
Flushed  in  the  valley 
Snow-colored  twilight  — 
Black  isles  of  pine. 

Hushed  the  cold  tinklings,  shuddered  the  sleigh 
Round  the  horizon, 
Keen  and  auroral, 
Burned  on  the  hill-lines 
Inexpressible  rose. 

Snorted  the  silvery  breath  of  the  horse: 
Into  the  silken 
Quivering  silence, 
Slid  like  a  snowflake 
Saint  Agnes'  moon. 


168 


A  BIRTHDAY 

(FOR  s.  s.  P.) 

SEVENTY  years ! 

What  memories  are  the  peers 

Of  such  a  service !     Who  shall  send 

Awed  messengers  into  the  vast  of  mind 

To  summon  them  ?     Or  who  shall  find 

And  herald  their  grand  reticence  ?  —  If  hours 

Are  sometimes  epochs,  if  there  are 

Minutes,  which  rise  like  Babylonian  towers 

Above  time's  sordid  plain,  who  shall  declare 

The  grandeur  of  this  life  ?     What  angel  compass 

it? 

Not  words,  but  smiles  and  tears 
Can  hail,  with  homage  fit, 
Those  seventy  years. 


169 


ONCE  more  Chopin  and  Mendelssohn 
Have  conjured  you,  sweet  Mother ! 

How  playfully  you  charmed  the  one, 
How  pensively  the  other, 

As,  standing  tiptoe  on  the  stair, 

I  watched  your  waving  golden  hair ! 

Again  I  watch  the  flashing  keys  — 
A  dreamy  boy,  dear  Mother, 

Climbing  to  bed  by  slow  degrees ; 
Again  my  sobs  I  smother 

Where,  hid  beneath  the  muffling  spread, 

The  heavenly  music  fills  my  head. 

The  heavenly  music  fills  again 

My  heart  with  childhood,  Mother, 

And  stirs  with  blended  bliss  and  pain 
Yearning  I  cannot  smother: 

A  husht,  tear-blinded  ecstasy 

Of  mingled  love  and  memory. 
170 


Only  Chopin,  or  Mendelssohn, 
None  holier,  and  none  other, 

Can  paint  for  me,  with  magic  tone, 
Your  portrait,  lovely  Mother: 

That  face,  amid  the  golden  hair, 

Forever  young  and  debonair ! 


171 


FOR   A   CHILD   CONVALESCENT 

BITTER  death, 
Blind  heart-ache, 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
How  distracting-dear  you  make 
This  soft  breath,  this  ease-drawn  breath 

Of  my  beloved  one. 
Sing,  Spring! 

Be  gracious,  weather! 

My  love  and  I  and  you  are  together. 

Budding  boughs, 
Pale  blue  skies, 

What  if  you  had  come 
Senseless  to  her  sealed  eyes, 
Impotent  her  sleep  to  rouse, 

All  your  songbirds  dumb  ! 
Sing,  Spiing! 

Be  grateful,  weather! 

My  love  and  I  and  you  are  together. 
172 


FOR   A   CHILD   CONVALESCENT         173 

Mighty  God, 
Thou  in  grace 

That  didst  Death  deter: 
Lovely  is  Thy  tranquil  face 
In  the  sunlight  or  the  sod, 

Loveliest  in  her. 

Sing,  Spring! 
Bring.,  wind, 

Soft  weather  — 
Long  and  kind. 
Sing,  Spring! 
Wing,  Song, 

On  lark's  feather  — 
Silver-lined. 

Bring  along, 
Wind, 

Kind  song  and  weather, 
Singing  high  — 
High  on  lark's  wing  — 
My  love  and  I 

In  love  and  Spring 

My  love  and  I  are  together! 


HALFWAY  the  climbing  rose  of  Infancy  - 

With  tears  for  dew-drops  shining  on  its  thorns, 
Lit  by  the  Mother-smile  of  peaceful  morns, 

All  pink  in  bloom,  with  now  a  golden  bee, 

Burrowed  in  kisses,  to  hum  lullaby, 

And  now  a  shower,  that  intermits  and  warns 
The  birds  to  carol  'twixt  the  thunder's  horns, 

Robin  of  babyhood,  thy  nest  I  see. 

Babe  of  the  birds,  when  from  thy  rosy  source 
Thou    shalt   upclimb    to   boyhood's    ruddier 

charm, 

The  brooks  shall  mock  thy  boisterous  discourse, 
The  skies  uplift  thy  shout,  where,  held  from 

harm, 
Thou  shalt  disport  on  the  big  world's  battered 

torse 
Like  Bacchus  on  the  Elgin  Hermes'  arm. 


174 


CATHLEEN 

MY  Cathleen  of  the  wilding  curl 
And  roguish  yellow  ringlet, 

Oh,  are  you  but  a  budding  girl, 
Or  cherub  clipt  of  winglet  ? 

I  kissed  you,  clambering  at  my  knee, 
All  dimpled,  shy  and  darling, 

When  every  glance  you  shot  at  me 
Flew  like  a  starling. 

You  sang  to  me  from  printless  books 
Of  tree- top-boughs  a  secret 

So  hushed,  that  in  my  heart  those  looks 
Of  baby  wonder  speak  yet. 

Of  pussy-cat  —  the  chucklehead  ! 

An  epic  you  told  after, 
Till  porch  and  lawn  and  garden-bed 

Caught  that  clear  laughter. 

You  kissed  me  then  —  Ah,  twinging  joy  ! 

Cathleen,  that  I  might  hover 
About  your  steps,  a  golden  boy, 

To  grow  your  golden  lover. 
175 


170  CATHLEEN 

Your  lover !     Nay,  I  scorn  his  name, 
Far  rather,  oh,  far  rather 

I'll  live,  to  thwart  him,  what  I  am: 

His  someday  sweetheart's  —  father. 


A  BABY  it  was,  or  a  bird : 

'Twas  hard  to  tell  at  a  guessing ; 
For  the  only  tidings  I  heard  - 

Save  a  lullaby  low  and  caressing  — 
Was  a  bunting  out  on  a  bough 

Calling:    Quick,  quick,  quick,  have  you  seen 

her? 
And  a  chickadee,  perched  on  the  mow, 

Singing:  Christy,  Christy,  Christina! 

Not  a  bird,  but  a  baby  she  is  I 

So  cuddly  and  quaint  and  surprising: 
As  fresh  as  sweet  clover  to  kiss, 

More  rosy  and  blithe  than  sunrising. 
And  her  brother  he  was  the  bird 

Calling:    Quick,  quick,  quick,  have  you  seen 

her? 
And  her  sister  the  songster  I  heard 

Singing:    Christy,  Christy,  Christina! 


177 


BE  merry,  dear,  for  merry  is  the  while, 

And  let  Mirth  make  a  ladder  of  thy  woes 

Whereon    thy    thoughts    may    mount    unto    thy 

smile  — 
As  fairies  climb  by  briers  to  the  rose. 


178 


THOU  art  the  still-renewing  spring 
For  poesie's  replenishing. 
By  thy  brink,  like  Rachel,  stands 
Beauty  pensive :   in  her  hands 
Poised,  she  holds  her  artless  pitcher; 
Her  own  reveries  bewitch  her 
Where  she  bends,  with  maiden  start, 
To  fill  it  faultless  at  thy  heart. 

But  I  —  poor  stumbler  with  verse- vessels, 

Worn  rhyme-thin  by  fancy's  pestles, 

Stub  my  toe  with  too  much  longing 

And  break  —  what  I  should  catch  the  song  in. 


179 


I  SAW  white  fields  and  shadows  gray 

And  clouds  the  low  sun  lurked  behind ; 
A  quiet  seemed  to  tint  the  day 

With  fainter  colors  of  the  mind, 
For  all  of  nature  to  my  sight 
Was  tempered  by  an  inner  light. 

The  winter  sun  set  clear  as  wine, 

A  silent  star  stole  to  its  place, 
And  still,  beneath  a  glooming  pine, 
She  stood,  with  visionary  grace 

Watching  the  sky:   I  could  not  speak; 
The  words  that  faltered  were  too  weak. 

My  voice  was  smothered  in  my  eyes; 

I  gazed  —  and  what  so  changeless  sweet 
(Since  Love  has  twined  our  destinies) 
As  when,  in  retrospection  fleet, 
All  after-visions  I  forget, 
And  dream  that  I  am  gazing  yet. 


180 


THE  perfect  rose  has  but  a  paltry  fruit; 

The  gracious  summer  but  a  garish  end ; 
And  May's  sweet  choirs  in  August  all  are  mute, 

And   youth's   strong   loins   his   largess    soon 
dispend. 

The  water-lily,  at  her  ripening, 

Hides    in    the    muddied    lake    her    beauty's 

spores ; 
Even  in  the  tender  calyx  of  the  Spring 

The  icy-sharded  worm  of  Winter  bores. 

But  you,  dear,  are  a  flower  of  God's  own  isle, 
Whose  glamours  ripen  in  the  spirit's  seed ; 

The  Galilean  lilies  are  your  smile, 

And  in  your  aching  heart  the  roses  bleed ; 

And  wreathed  of  fire  cold  Time  can  never  smother 
The  maiden  yields  her  garland  to  the  mother. 


181 


ONLY  the  strong  have  right  to  reign  in  song  — 
The  strong  of  soul,  that  are  the  warriors 
Of  God.  —  The  weak-at-heart,  he  that  out 
pours 

His  coward  pain,  perpetuates  a  wrong. 

Therefore  I  promised  you  I  would  be  strong, 

Or  silent :  But  now  —  hark  !  Again  the  doors 
Of  heaven  are  wide,  and  on  the  palace  floors 

I  greet  the  Nine,  who  wept  for  me  full  long. 

Look  up  once  more,  my  love  !     The  lark  is  risen; 
Not  as  of  old,  above  the  immaculate  fields, 
Remote,  of  May  he  chants,  but  now  he  builds 
His  nest  of  dew  beneath  the  common  prison 
Of  Workaday :  —  O  hark  to  him,  dear  one, 
Rounding,  of  song  and  toil,  a  Pantheon  ! 


182 


REALIZING  that  the  lives  of  men  are  rills 

Coursing  in  lines  consecutive  and  bright 

Down  the  pied  slopes  of  Time's  'eternal  hills/ 
Or  flocks  of  mingling  sea-birds,  that  alight 

An  hour  upon  the  icebergs,  there  to  strew 
Wide  Babel  o'er  the  pristine  silences, 

Then,  soaring,  blend  in  the  universal  blue: 
Brooding  an  hundred  analogues  like  these 

That  show  how  we,  bright  atom-points  of  thought 
In  this  congested  brain  of  being,  reign 

An  instant  and  no  longer  in  the  plot 
Of  God;   realizing  this,  and  then 

Remembering  I  run  my  race  with  thee, 
I  grow  in  love  with  my  mortality. 


183 


As  ripples  widen  where  the  stone  is  cast, 

So  we  do  wane  toward  the  banks  of  death ; 
As  dips  the  summer  grass  before  the  breath 

Of  the  west  wind,  so  lightly  we  are  passed : 

Our  lives  are  liquid ;  even  when  Grief  has  massed 
Their  evanescent  flowers  to  a  mort-wreath, 
They  are  such  icy  blooms  as  a  frosty  heath 

Paints  on  the  glass-pane,  and  as  long  they  last. 

Therefore,  since  joy  is  the  acquiescent  will 

That  blends  our  spirits'  limbs  with  all  which 
flows, 

Since  pain  is  the  stagnant  eddy  and  the  chill 

That  lies  congealed  within  the  withered  rose, 

Let  us,  sweet  friend,  of  beauty  drink  our  fill, 
And  fix  in  natural  change  our  soul's  repose. 


184 


INDEX  TO   POEMS  IN  PART 
TWO 


INDEX  TO   FIRST   LINES 

OF   THE    POEMS   IN    PART   TWO 

Across  the  moist  beam  of  the  cloud-rimmed  sun  105 

A  baby  it  was,  or  a  bird  177 

A  boy,  who  stoops  upon  a  green  hillside  135 

All  joys,  familiar  and  divine  133 

A  poppy,  all  on  fire  with  beauty's  beams  129 

Arch  twinklings  of  the  quaint  wood-smile  of  Pan  152 

A  rose  111 

As  children  fling  bright  silver  in  the  sea  140 

As  ripples  widen  where  the  stone  is  cast  184 

At  night,  I  prayed  for  sleep;   instead  110 

Auroral  tempest  on  an  auburn  sea  112 

Behold  where  Night  clutches  the  cup  of  heaven  115 

Be  merry,  dear,  for  merry  is  the  while  178 

Bitter  death  172 

Brief  Revelation  of  enduring  Truth  122 

Bright  in  the  dark  of  sleep  all  night  till  morn  153 

Dear  babe,  that  this  should  be  !    Whence  should 

this  come  124 

Even  as  an  infant  fingers  the  crisp  sheet  121 

Fair  is  the  foreground  of  her  soul  157 

Frail  Sleep,  that  blowest  by  fresh  banks  92 

Had  poet  Geoffrey  been  a  painter  then  149 

Hark  to  the  fairy  linnet  109 

Halfway  the  climbing  rose  of  infancy  174 

187 


188  INDEX 

Her  eyes  are  casements  clear  as  dew  97 

Hewer  of  visions  from  our  human  clay  146 

How  fain  we  conjure  back  his  face !    How  fain  144 

I  cannot  think  good-by  117 

I  dreamed  a  thousand  ages,  armed  with  flint  95 

1  heard  the  waves  exulting  in  their  power  161 

In  the  still  campagna  102 

1  saw  white  fields  and  shadows  gray  180 

Is  this  our  common  world  of  weariness  150 

I  watched  an  arc  light  under  wind-stirr'd  trees  93 

I  watched  a  drama,  sitting  in  the  wings  132 

Leisure,  kind  Leisure,  I  require  96 

Life  said  to  Death :   Brother  137. 

Midway  the  silent  parlor  plain  125 

Moody,  our  time  is  glad  of  you;  'tis  given  147 

My  Cathleen  of  the  wilding  curl  175 

My  love  was  freshly  come  from  sea  158 

My  thoughts  are  like  pied  cattle  on  the  hills  164 

Now  that  you  are  come  up  from  the  hush  vale  148 

Old  Age,  the  irrigator  139 

Once  more  Chopin  and  Mendelssohn  170 

Only  the  strong  have  right  to  reign  in  song  182 

Out  of  the  drenched  and  leafless  night,  my  dear  163 

Out  of  the  '  obscure  wood '  and  ominous  way  143 

Plastic  Fancies,  form  a  mould  130 

Realizing  that  the  lives  of  men  are  rills  183 

Ribbed  like  a  conch  and  ruddy  through  the  dark  151 

Rise,  sweet  signora  of  the  sigh  99 

Serene,  he  sits  on  other  shores  123 

Seventy  years  169 


INDEX  189 

She  stood  before  a  florist's  window-pane  94 

She  was  a  child  of  February  160 

Spring  is  Shakspere's  garden  106 

Steep  ran  the  hill -road  out  of  the  wood  168 

Strawberry-flower  and  violet  104 

Swan  of  the  silver  beak  and  sable  breast  100 

The  cricket  is  chirring  127 

The  flower  shall  fade,  not  the  spirit  116 

The  forms  sublime,  the  moods  elate  131 
The  ghosts  of  Praise-God  Barebones  and  his  clan        145 

The  Lady  of  the  Sunset  98 

The  perfect  rose  has  but  a  paltry  fruit  181 

The  ragged  clouds  are  all  a- rout  162 

The  soft  rains  are  falling  159 

This  baby  brow,  like  a  smooth  handkerchief  126 

Thou  art  the  still-renewing  spring  179 

Thou  husky  raven  of  the  insect  race  108 
Two  song-birds  build  their  nests  within  my  brain         91 

What  is  so  free  107 

When  beauty  ripens  newly  in  old  sheaves  165 

When  first  the  pussy-willow  shows  166 

When  subtle  passion  makes  me  slave  134 

Young  rider  and  steed  they  dash  on  through  the  dusk  118 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


E   following   pages   contain   advertisements  of 
Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author. 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

The  New  Citizenship 

Boards,  i6mo,  $  .50 

A  masque  or  "  ritual,"  as  the  author  calls  it,  which  presents  in  simple  and 
dramatic  form  the  dignity  and  importance  of  citizenship  in  the  United  States.  It 
is  well  suited  for  use  in  schools,  particularly  where  there  is  a  large  foreign 
element. 

A  Substitute  for  War 

Boards,  idmo,  $  .30 

It  is  one  of  the  few  peace  books  which  proposes  a  definite  and  positive  sub- 
stitute  for  war.  It  attracted  wide  attention  when  the  article  on  which  it  is  based 
was  printed  in  the  North  American  Review. 

The  Present  Hour 

BY    PERCY    MACKAYE 

Author  of"  The  Scarecrow,"  "  Sappho  and  Phaon,"  etc. 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.25 

"  The  first  book  of  poetry,  coming  out  of  the  present  European  conflict,  to 
strike  home  with  conviction.  ...  '  School '  is  perhaps  the  most  distinctly 
American  poem  of  the  present  time."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  There  is  much  that  is  fine,  vigorous,  picturesque  and  genuinely  imaginative 
in  this  collection  .  .  .  and  one  responds  to  the  deep  patriotism  of  it  with  a  sincere 
heart-throb  of  sympathy  ...  his  voice  is  one  of  the  few  to-day  worth  hearing." 

—  Bellman. 

"...  strikes  much  deeper  root  than  the  majority  of  the  work  upon  this  subject 
thus  far  produced."  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  volume  as  a  whole  contains  Mr.  Mackaye's  best,  most  authentically 
inspired  poetry,  and  it  is  poetry  of  which  all  who  speak  the  English  tongue  may 
be  more  than  a  little  proud."  —  Cincinnati  Inquirer. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Sistine  Eve,  and  Other  Poems 

A  New  Edition.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  121110,  $1.25 

"...  will  place  him  among  the  most  noteworthy  of  the  younger  school  of 
literary  producers."  —  Bellman. 

Jeanne  D'Arc 

Decorated  doth,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"A  series  of  scenes  animated  at  times  by  a  sure,  direct,  and  simple  poetry, 
again  by  the  militant  fire,  and  finally  by  the  bitter  pathos  of  the  most  moving, 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  and  certainly  the  most  inexplicable  story  in  profane 
history."  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

A  Garland  to  Sylvia 

Cloth,  gilt  top,  I2mo,  $1.25 
"...  contains  much  charming  poetry."  —  New  York  Post. 

Sappho  and  Phaon 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  I2tno,  $1.25 

"  Mr.  Mackaye's  work  is  the  most  notable  addition  that  has  been  made  for 
many  years  to  American  dramatic  literature.  It  is  true  poetic  tragedy  .  .  , 
charged  with  happy  inspiration;  dignified,  eloquent,  passionate,  imaginative,  and 
thoroughly  human  in  its  emotions,  .  .  .  and  whether  considered  in  the  light  of 
literature  or  drama,  need  not  fear  comparison  with  anything  that  has  been  writ 
ten  by  Stephen  Phillips  or  John  Davidson.  .  .  .  Masterfully  written  with  deep 
pathos  and  unmistakable  poetic  power."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

The  Canterbury  Pilgrims 

Decorated  cloth,  ill.,  gilt  top,  i2nio,  $1.25 

"  This  is  a  comedy  in  four  acts,  —  a  comedy  in  the  higher  and  better  meaning 
of  the  term.  It  is  an  original  conception  worked  out  with  a  rare  degree  of  fresh 
ness  and  buoyancy,  and  it  may  honestly  be  called  a  play  of  unusual  interest  and 
unusual  literary  merit.  .  .  .  The  drama  might  well  be  called  a  character  por 
trait  of  Chaucer,  for  it  shows  him  forth  with  keen  discernment,  a  captivating 
figure  among  men,  an  intensely  human,  vigorous,  kindly  man.  ...  It  is  a 
moving,  vigorous  play  in  action.  Things  go  rapidly  and  happily,  and,  while 
"here  are  many  passages  of  real  poetry,  the  book  is  essentially  a  drama." 

—  St.  Paul  Dispatch. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Mater :    An  American  Study  in  Comedy 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  Mr.  Mackaye's  Mater  is  a  thing  of  pure  delight.  It  is 
prose,  but  a  prose  filled  with  poetic  fire.  Only  a  poet  could 
have  conceived  and  written  a  play  in  which  the  elements  of 
seriousness  and  laughter  are  so  admirably  blended.  .  .  .  The 
dialogue  throughout  shows  Mr.  Mackaye  at  his  best ;  there 
is  in  it  life  and  light,  quick  movement,  and  outpouring  of 
song."  —  Book  News  Monthly. 

Fenris,  the  Wolf 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"A  drama  that  shows  triple  greatness.  There  is  the  su 
preme  beauty  of  poetry,  the  perfect  sense  of  dramatic  propor 
tion,  and  nobility  of  purpose.  It  is  a  work  to  dream  over,  to 
make  one  see  glorious  pictures,  —  a  work  to  uplift  to  soul 
heights  through  its  marvellously  wrought  sense  appeal." 

—  Examiner. 

The  Scarecrow 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2tno,  $1.25 

"A  delightful  and  significant  piece  of  philosophical  satire; 
...  a  drama  which  is  full  of  imagination,  and  well  worthy  a 
place  in  our  literature."  —  New  York  Mail. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of 
Geoffrey  Chaucer 

Now  first  pttt  into  Modern  English  by 
JOHN    S.    P.    TATLOCK 

Author  of  "  The  Development  and  Chronology  of  Chaucer's 
Works,"  etc. 

AND 

PERCY    MACKAYE 

Author  of  "  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims,"  "  Jeanne  D'Arc,"  etc. 
New  and  cheaper  edition,  with  illustrations  in  black  and  white 

Cloth,  8vo,  $2.00  ;  leather,  boxed,  $5.00 

The  publication  of  The  Modern  Readers  Chaucer  is  a  pronounced  success. 
Presenting  as  it  does  the  stories  of  the  great  bard  in  language  that  twentieth  cen 
tury  readers  unversed  in  Old  English  can  understand  and  enjoy,  it  opens  up  a 
rich  store  of  fascinating  literature.  This  cheaper  edition  of  the  work  is  designed 
with  the  purpose  of  still  further  increasing  its  usefulness.  It  departs  in  no  way 
from  the  original  except  in  the  matter  of  illustrations,  all  of  which  are  rendered 
in  black  and  white.  The  binding,  too,  is  simpler,  being  uniform  with  the  binding 
of  the  one  volume  edition  of  The  Modern  Reader's  Bible.  The  text  remains 
unchanged. 

"  The  version  not  only  maintains  the  spirit  and  color,  the  rich  humor  and  in 
sight  into  human  nature,  of  the  original,  but  is  of  itself  a  literary  delight." 

—  The  A  rgonaut. 

"  Those  who  have  at  times  attempted  to  struggle  through  the  original  text 
with  the  aid  of  a  glossary,  will  welcome  this  new  form."  —  Graphic,  Los  A  ngeles. 

"  Chaucer  is  now  readable  by  hundreds  where  before  he  was  not  accessible  to 
dozens.  The  book  is  a  veritable  mine  of  good  stories.  .  .  .  The  volume  can 
be  heartily  recommended  to  all  lovers  of  the  lasting  and  the  permanent  in 
literature."  —  Kentucky  Post. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

JUL  0  4  2001 


12,000(11/95) 


6721 

PS3525 

1P5 

Mackaye  £ 

V.I 

Poems  an< 

.  plays* 

5  5  2  b 


LIBRARY,  BRANCH  OF  THE  COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE 


